Dreamland Chronicles

Ah, Mr Josh, we have been expecting you.

2011-12-05T15:52:00.006Z

What a day. The people I meet in my working life, what a rich tapestry they weave. For reasons too boring to detail here I had a nightmare journey to my work place today. From my frozen fumbling hands struggling to hold the plastic ice twatter (whatever they are called) to the 24 hour supermarket that seems to think it can choose which of the 24 daily hours it can open whilst still being able to call itself 24hr. Idiots. Its 0730, that's an hour, do you not do that one ? Perhaps you are open twice at 0830 instead !

I even arrived at three wrong places, only to enquire of people, is this *insert site name here* ? to have them tell me yes, it is. But it WASN'T ! What was their game ? What possible benefit could that serve ? To anyone.

Anyway, I arrived in the pitch black to the right place eventually, and strode over to meet the man by the hole who was wrapped against the cold leaning on his survey staff. I offered him my hand, introduced myself with a smile and apologised for being 3 minutes after 8 instead of on the hour. At this the machine driver threw open his window and fixed me with a gaze as though I stood before him naked and ablaze. His little bullet head glistened in the growing half light as he helpfully spoke "Tha's no point talking to him, tha's a mute, int tha Tick Tack ?" I stared as closely as I dared into the thick hood that surrounded the ruddy faced "ring wraith" but there was little going on as he swayed about his prop.

Then appeared a second helpful fellow intent on telling me how his new girlfriend allows him to sleep on the floor of his OWN bedroom, a one eared dog, a man robed only in a green Treasure Huntesque boiler suit and Bulgarian peasant cap, a woman dressed entirely in cream fur and a cement truck commanded with varying degrees of success by Nick from the Apprentice.

Bullseying Womp Rats

2011-12-04T15:47:00.007Z

We left the small town of Rachel and headed east back along the highway, pausing along the way at the legendary Black Mailbox. This tiny metal box basking in the desert heat marks the ultimate patch of dirt to stand on if you want a glimpse of a UFO. More have been witnessed here than anywhere else on the planet. I am told that on most evenings if you wait long enough it's only a matter of time before you catch a glimpse of strange lights rising above the mountains to the south. The supposed Sigma 4 complex is only a couple of dozen miles away. We pulled over at this shrine to pay our respects and bumped in to a couple of Brits on a world tour. The guy was as bemused as Mrs Tron as me and the girl shared our enthusiasm for the little metal box.

I intended that evening to stay awake into the early hours scanning the horizon for lights from the porch of our cabin but the drive had taken it's toll and I was soundly asleep by 10. It was a relief to be out of the horror of Vegas and back in the wilds. The following day saw us driving south back toward Vegas and round the far side of the Nellis Range to the road west across Death Valley. Stopping for gas at a dirty garage with attatched brothel museum I was amused by a coach load of South Yorkshire types talking to the cashier very slowly and bizarrely with an effected French accent to maximise their chances of being understood.

Death Valley was kind of surreal, to begin with the booth at the park entrance was deserted and it served to compound the eerie sensation that we were stepping out into the unknown. The temperature struggled to breach the 110 mark as we made our way across the barren landscape passing the obligatory restaurant in the valley floor. As we began our ascent of the western side of the valley the air was punctuated with an alarming howl as US Navy F18 out of the China Lake Range to the west screamed into view climbing briefly before dipping behind a crest. I am told that somewhere out in this maze of valleys is a location known to the Navy pilots as Star Wars Canyon. A long twisting canyon that ends abruptly in a sheer wall that nearly ended the career of an A7 Corsair jockey back in the early 80's, that lead to an official ban on entering the canyon.

Exiting the valley we were rewarded with a veiw of the majestic Sierra Neveda's and it dawned on me that we has been in the mountains for a very, very long time. I had always thought of America as been like England with the Rockies replacing the Pennines as the spine with lowlands either side rolling gently to the coasts but we had been in mountains across four states at this point, ever since the Black Hills of South Dakota. We would not be out of the mountains until San Francisco, and at this point in time I was blissfully unaware of the fact that the San Franciso Police Department would be putting out an APB on my drunken arse as I stumbled around China Town in a tweed jacket looking for my hotel, whose name I had forgotten.

Road Trippin !

2011-10-08T17:28:00.022+01:00

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE- out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the tears that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
Their still waters- still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,-
By the mountains- near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the grey woods,- by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp-
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,-
By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy-
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past-
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by-
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not- dare not openly view it!
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.

It's as if somehow he had peeled back the veil of time itself and caught a glimpse of it. A hundred years beyond his span it spoke to him. The very earth itself hums with the weight of the secrets it contains. Illusion and reality collide and confusion reigns in the desert delirium.

It's my favourite stretch of road in the world. Driving up the 93 north from Vegas, hanging a left onto the Yellow Brick Road, The 375, The Extraterrestrial Highway. The 375 climbs relentlessly up the Eastern Pahranagat Range, over Hancock summit before swinging violently to the left and dropping steeply. At the crest of the hill one catches a glimpse of Groom Lake Road stretching off in the direction of Mount Wandell, then the road vanishes from view.

At first it looks like this is the continuaton of the 375 but when you hit the floor you quickly realise that the highway continues to the north-west whilst Groom Lake Road runs south west directly into the 3 million acre Nellis Bombing and Gunnery Range. Travelling too close to Mount Wandell is a very, very bad idea (a trip courtesy of the Lincoln County Sheriff and a guarenteed fine of 600 bucks are your reward for a first indiscretion). You are now stood in the Tikaboo Valley, the better part of about 500 square miles of almost uninhabited high desert terrain. Almost as soon as you hit the ground legend has it that probing sensors high in the mountains to the south detect and track your progress across the valley floor. If you were to stand at the junction of the highway and Groom Lake Road Area 51 lies just 25 miles to the south west. To the north west, 24 miles away beyond Coyote Summit lies the town of Rachel.

The town of Rachel is a legend in itself. Comprising of little more than a collection of trailers parked in the desert the town began it's life back in the early 1970's when the Union Carbide Company opened a mine on the nearby Tempiute Mountain. The current population is around 70. At 4.10 pm on July 10th 1986 a pair of Norwegian F.16's were engaged in a mock dogfight high above the town when they collided. One of the pair managed to claw its way back to Nellis Airbase on the outskirts of Vegas. The fate of the second was not quite so rosey. It plummeted to the ground crashing barely 100ft from one of the trailers in the trailer park. Luckily it was carrying a new less volatile fuel which not cause an explosion on impact.

The town comprises today of a church, a senior citizens centre, a power co-op, two alfalfa farms and The Little A'le'inn. This motel/resteraunt/bar has long been a holy shrine for aviation buffs and sci-fi nerds alike. It's walls are adorned with pictures and newspaper clippings.

In one corner hangs an autographed photo of Charles Elwood Yeager. Better known as Chuck he proved he was made of The Right Stuff when he accelerated the Bell X1 through the sound barrier in the high desert out of Edwards Airbase back in 1947. In another in a sun bleached frame hangs a message from Bob Lazar. Lazar caused something of a ruckus back in November 1989 when he went on KLAS in Las Vegas and in an interview with George Knapp claimed to have worked on reverse engineering of an alien craft at the S-4 complex at Papoose Lake, west of Area 51.

To be continued............

The big one

2011-09-28T19:44:00.002+01:00

Well, I only went ahead and did it. The next thing to appear on here will be the story of my adventure on 3966 miles of road to get to that place where reality and fantasy meet, that most public of secret places, the place where the mad dreams of sane men and the sane dreams of mad men blur until no one is sure of what is real and what merely seems to be real. The greatest show of them all, The Box, Watertown, Paradise Ranch, Area 51....................Dreamland.

Fanfare for the Common Idiot.

2011-07-24T12:12:00.012+01:00

Driving along to work the other morning with Alex to help get his site finished on time we passed the idle miles with inane chat. We got to talking about photography when I remembered an incident from my days in the South West. I was preparing my dissertation, which was on a WW2 airfield in Devon and had ventured to the site to do a photo survey of the standing buildings.

Wandering around airfields is a passion of mine, the air is always different on an airfield and it is usually thick with nostalgia and adventure. As I wandered passed a small gathering of huts, a cheery faced bloke emerged from one of them. I asked him where I could find the airfields owner, as I had arranged to meet him to to get his approval for me to wander around the site, camera in hand, snapping away like a papzo on crack. He gave me a set of directions and as I set off he told me to make sure nothing fell out of my pockets as I walked across the grass between runways. I assured him that I was well briefed on the dangers of FOD. The very utterance of the acronym pricked his ears and he suddenly called me back. He went on to inform me that he was an ex Nimrod pilot and now ran a pleasure flight company. Would I be happy to accompany him aloft for a weather check he asked. Of course, I said adding an enquiry of my own, would he mind if I took some Air Photos whilst we were at it ? He told me that this would not be a problem and we chatted away like old school chums as we walked to the rear of a hut where a single engined high wing Cessna was parked.

I should have known better, I have a theory about Nimrod pilots. I have never met a normal one. I think that they are spotted too far down pilot training to be re-traded by the RAF after the amount of time and cash invested in their training. No, moving them at that late stage would just not do, so instead the RAF sends them to Nimrod. I have never met one yet who was not a nutter, and my host was about to prove he was no exception. As we taxied out onto the "Main" runway he chatted away to the tower and to a mate of his back in their shack about his shenanigans the night before in the local pub. As we gathered speed I was alarmed to spot the runway. It looked like it has received the attention of several waves of Goering's finest, it was littered with pot holes, most a good few inches deep. As we picked up speed he calmly weaved through the minefield of holes by pumping the rudder pedal. Off we raced down the runway weaving like a barracuda as he laughed with his pal over the net. Then things got really interesting. We both spotted it at the same time. Bobbing along the perry track that skirted the field was a tractor hauling a huge trailer of hay. It was heading toward the end of the runway that we were currently crabbing down at about 80 knots. "Oh, that's unfortunate" he observed and then, turning to face me he very calmly told me to open the handle on my door. Looking at him as I did so I asked "Why ?". Again, in a voice that bordered on cheerful, he pointed out "because I don't think we are going to make it and I don't want your door to buckle and get stuck on impact" I muttered under my breath and wrestled with the door handle, he began to sing, SING ! Across my field of view, right to left the tractor trundled along its way, right across our line of travel, the Cessna was fish tailing wildly now as our speed increased and we had less time to adjust for pot holes, on and on he sang, my alarm increasing as I realised he was singing "The Unknown Stuntman" from the Lee Majors TV show The Fall Guy. The engine of the Cessna began to whine as he increased speed to try and get us to the threshold before the tractor did, and then, with a whoosh the little craft leapt skyward just as the tractor passed underneath, I could have stepped out onto the bloody hay.

We climbed around the sky for an hour shooting the Airfield, at one point he told me to take the wheel so he could get some shots of his own. Not really knowing what I was doing I tried to keep her steady whilst he lent out of the window, his moustache blowing in the airstream as he snapped away, every now and again he would get his camera strap wrapped around his control yoke and as he pulled the strap toward him the yoke would flip and the plane would be thrown into an aggressive wing over and he would suddenly release the sort of noise people do when a horse does something sudden. As this happened he would calmly reach his hand inside and straighten her out whilst his head still dangled out of his window.

Once safely on the ground he asked if I would like to return later in the day for a flight in one of his two Tiger Moths, cursing myself under my breath for ever climbing aboard that bloody Cessna with a Nimrod pilot I politely declined and made off across the field.

Thickening Of The Plot.

2011-07-09T12:25:00.004+01:00

Do you ever get that slightly unsettling sensation that you are not allowed "inside the Loop" ? You know, that niggling little doubt that everyone else has got a copy of the script but they are not letting you in on the plot, that the bastards all know more than you and the instant that your back is turned they all start laughing at the fact that you are too stupid to realise that the game is rigged. I am sure we all have days like that. I can recall one in particular. I was on archahaeology field trip lead by an eminent Professor and he took us all to a pub in Middleham. He lead us all to the bar of this nice country boozer and bought us all a drink. Sat at the bar was an old boy who had seen better days. His once nice suit was thread bare and the sole of one shoe was hanging off. As the drinks were ordered one by one he sat staring at his pint. I was hanging at the back and when my turn came I asked for a Guinness. As soon as I spoke this barfly spun around and declared "you ain't from round here is tha ?" the following exchange then ensued.

Me: "No"

Him: "I knew it. Where's tha from"

Me: "Leeds"

Him: "No tha's not, where's tha from"

Me: "Ok. Wakefield"

Him: "No no no, tha's not, where's tha from ?"

Me: "Alright then, I'm from Ossett"

Him: "Ah, I know. From the Manor ?"

Me: "Yes"

Him: "Did your Grandma live near the churchyard ?"

Me: "Yes"

Him: "And your Uncle on your mother's side, sups in The Bull ?"

Me: "Aye"

Him: "Fuck me ! I'm your Father !"

He was not, but he was sure of it. Over the next ten minutes he explained to me that he was a club singer that made enough touring the Working Men's Clubs to buy a little bungalow and settle down but there was some "unpleasantness" and he was forced into exile. I left him as quickly as I could and rejoined my companions upon which the Professor remarked "Tim, this Ossett, select gene pool is it ?"

Hong Kong Phooey.

2011-07-07T19:39:00.011+01:00

Sat in the car yesterday on site, as the rain lashed down around us and the heat of 5 archaeologists crammed into the trusty old peoples truck steamed up the grotty windscreen, my mind began to wander. On it drifted, passed Alex fucking Baldwin and his fifteenth enquiry into how many contexts are permissible on a single context plan, on passed the steady stream of requests for clipboards. On and on it drifted, until, like a great fetid beast rising from the ocean depths, a Volvo came into view, skidding to a halt in the middle of a building site."oh god" I thought to myself, of all the memories why this ?" Too late now. From it emerged a small man with great furry tufts of hair sprouting straight out from his ears. He waddled toward me with outstretched hand. "Brrrrrr, mmmmmmmmm, brrrrrrrrrrr Direct me to the Op's Tent !" he muttered. Rolling my eyes "Site Office ? Yep over there by the roller". This he flatly ignored "Where is my billet man ?" he barked, as I stood scratching my face I noticed the empty bottles of Bells Whisky in the footwell of the idling Volvo. Before I could answer the Site Manager emerged from a cabin and called the man over. They disappeared into the hut. About half an hour later the man staggered over to my trench. "Never" he announced, "allow your wife to arrange the billeting". Stood swaying on the edge of my hole he continued "my daughter got married last week, silly cow, we had a do at the Club, she, of course left early". "Of course" I injected. "I returned home around 2am" he declared, adding that "he was robed in one sock". As I nodded fake understanding his yarn unravelled "I awoke at 0530 and as is my way rolled over and grabbed my wife's bosom". "Great" I managed uncomfortably. HA ! he laughed " It weren't bloody hers was it, it was the sodding son-in-law, the bloody wife told him and my Lisa that they could use our bed before setting off to Venice. My daughter was not impressed !" he remarked waddling off.

The next day I arrived at work to find him berating the Site Foreman's son who he had been lent as an assistant. It transpired that the old fella was some kind of journeyman engineer. After about 15 minutes his voice boomed across the site "Not like that you bloody Gimp ! Idiot boy!". Moments later he stormed passed my trench "The lad is a Gimp" he roared. Into the site office he strode announcing "This boy is a Gimp". Seconds later he was shepherded out of the cabin by the jabbing finger of the boys father. "A Gimp ?" barked the Foreman. "A Gimp ?" enquired the madman. "You called my son a Gimp" accused the Foreman. "A Gimp? What the hell is Gimp ?" demanded the confused old duffer before exclaiming "A Chimp ! A chimpanzee monkey! The boy is a bloody Ape !" roared our newcomer jumping up and down on the spot making childish monkey noises and stroking his armpits.. "He. Is. MY SON" bellowed the Foreman. "Aha" came the reply "As I suspected. It comes from breeding you know?".

Leaving behind a bemused and enraged Foreman he headed back my way, twiddling the hair of his ear beards. Upon nearing the trench he announced "How the devil are you ?" hand outstretced once more "I haven't seen you since Hong Kong". "I have not been to Hong Kong" I answered. "Yes you have" he corrected "I haven't seen you since the Club". "What Club ?" I wearily enquired. "The bloody Club in Hong Kong". Confused I announced slowly and clearly "I. Have. Never. Been. To. Hong Kong". He was having none of it. "Yes you have, you used to go to the Club. With me. Every Tuesday, you and me went to the Club". "When ?" I demanded. "When what ?" he offered. "When did we go the club, when was it we went to the club". "What club?" he responded. "The bloody club we went too every Tuesday !". "Oh! That club. 1957. The Monkey Club in Hong Kong. They hung a monkey every Tuesday" he explained as he shuffled off to continue doing whatever the hell it was the management had let him loose on.

The Big League

2011-06-23T19:41:00.009+01:00

You know reader, there are times when I really wish that I was more of a man, you know what I'm saying ? I mean. I'm crap at DIY, Mrs Josh deals with all that, I like to act as if I know about cars and stuff, but I'm clueless. Whenever the father-In-law is around for a barbecue he talks to me about little washers and 2/16th screws and grommets and I just nod along like an imbecile wishing he knew the plot to Battlestar Galactica.

In an attempt to counter this, I have recently tried my hand at more manly pastime's. I tried MMA cage fighting but it made me dizzy, I tried that gateaux eating Inuit bothering cop out Ray Mears but I couldn't understand a god damn word of what he was talkin about, must be that mouth full of survival Angel Cake. I tried things on that discovery channel, you know, Ice Road Lumberjack and Deadliest Thatch and shit. Fell asleep.

There was only one thing for it, I had to bite the big bazooka and go for it, Le foot, Futebol, Fußball, Football.

I tried in the past and nearly got my head kicked in. I remember being in an estate pub, as in a pub on an industrial estate, watching England play Trinidad and Tobago. TAT took a shot on goal, it looked competent so me and my companion remarked "well played" and clapped. The ENTIRE building, men, women, children, status dogs and whatever those braying bald things were stared at us with open mouths as if we had raped the Queen Mum. The only thing that saved us was by adding "for a bunch of two left footed nincompoops" to our first statement.

Having watched it a bit lately though, I think that I have it. It could work. I think there is one simple alteration that could bring this street fight into the civilised era. Add more balls. I'm thinking twenty or thirty of them, BUT, they have to come in a range of sizes. Furthermore balls of equivalent size MUST be of a range of different weights. This way a player will never be sure how hard they have to kick it. Some of the ping pong ball sized ones would be made of lead, some of the really big ones would be hollow. This way everyone on the pitch would be operating in total confusion, anyone could score, injuries and comedy falling over would be rife. They would be running around like headless chickens and instead of getting angry the fans would all be pissing themselves as the monkeys danced.

Maybe I missed the point, maybe I don't care.

Till the next time.

Whatever

2011-06-15T17:57:00.002+01:00

I really wanted to write something today, but, i can't be arsed. So, instead, have a look at this.

I'm goin' way down south.

2011-05-14T09:28:00.011+01:00

I was recently talking to a friend about the sort of antics one got involved in back in the day, when I dimly recalled what may perhaps rank as Logans lowest day. Many years ago now I lived in a far off land known as the southwest. I used to frequent a delightful little shit hole of a pub on a regular basis. This wonderful boozer was caught in a time warp and was simply drenched in sleaze. On bright sunny days when the entire world was sat in pub beer gardens I could be found in a dark little corner of this dive clutching a cider and listening to Motorhead. This was the place where I made friends with Murray The Tramp, who had once roadied for The Head but now lived in the churchyard over the road from the pub, having fallen on bad times. Here too I completely accidentally missed glassing a drummer by a fraction of an inch when a wild gesticulation caused my wayward hand to bitch slap a half of cider from the singers hand and sent it flying across the room. They used to have BBQ's in the summer and had a one eyed nutter with a huge tea straining ginger 'tache stood on the stairs to the bog cooking burgers for a quid.

Every now and again I would be barred from the joint, but only for short periods. One time I was thrown out for falling off my stool, another time for baring my arse in the window. This one day I was in full flow at 3 in the afternoon when the barmaid who was on that day, who never cracked a smile, told me my cab was here. What cab ? had I called one ? I did not think that I had but it seemed feasible. "Cab mate" came a voice at the door, "coming" I announced sliding of the tall stool and gliding down the front of the bar as my knees gave way. Through the heavy oak door and blinking into the world I climbed into my taxi. MMMMM, why is he wearing overalls ? I thought. I slid my aviators up my nose with a trembling finger and craned my neck, all stealthily, to survey the interior of the cab. Why are there tools in the back ? Why is it a van ? Where the fuck am I going. Shit. I made small talk with the "cabbie" as we whirred around country roads before a screech of tyres and a sudden yank of the wheel revealed our destination. A nice posh country boozer. As I clambered out of the door the van was already off, I glimpsed the word "Plumber" on it's side as away it flew.

Trying to take stock I stumbled into the front bar. MMMMM, lots of people in suits Josh.....and lots of women in frocks. I glanced at my rotting "nad jeans" (A pair of black drain pipes covered in holes and curry stains) and grotty Converse. Still confused I at least sensed that I was under dressed and smartened up my leather jacket. A young girl in a black and white pinny with one of those stupid hats you imagine the bar staff on the Titanic drowning in came past. As she drew level, removing my glasses, eyes now screaming at the electric light, I asked her "where am I ?" she told me the name of the Pub but as she did I was already re-phrasing my question to one more useful to my predicament, "why am I here ?" At this she simply gave me a look that only a mother can give to a child.

Sensing I was stood somewhat on parade in the entrance to the bar I decided for survivals sake it was best to act like I was meant to be there, wherever there was. I stumbled to the bar and ordered a cider, hand fumbling for change. "The party is in the rear extension" the barman told me. Party ? Ha Ha, things are looking up ! As carefully as I could I threaded my way through to a wooden extension at the back. There in font of me was IT. IT being a wedding reception. OK Josh. Kidnapped and then forced to gate crash a wedding. Maybe it's time to leave. Thing is, I was thirsty, the thorny issue of getting back from wherever I was, was quite simply, too annoying to contemplate. It was then that I registered the rest of the room. Down each long side were two parties of people facing one another across the hall. It's clear to me now that these were probably the bride and grooms parties. At the end of the hall was a small stage on which a band of four or five guys were playing polite songs.

A voice next to me, close to my ear, said "I wish this would pick up, it's been like this for nearly an hour" I squinted and tried to focus on the lines of people. It was a wedding but they were not smiling. They just STOOD. Confused I tried to fathom what was going on. I had reached that obtuse level of drunkenness now where everything was a great mystery. Who had called the cab ? and why ? I was enjoying myself, sat on my favourite stool, why would they send me here ? Whilst my fuddled brain tried to catch up with it's own questions I felt my legs begin to move, striding at first and then, and then, My God ! I'm running, nay, I'm charging. Surprised at myself I tried to work out what I was intending to do now. I could sense people either side of me gasping as I rushed toward the stage. MMM, this could be an anti climax I thought, to whatever the fuck it is that I think I am doing. The stage drew near and as I reached it I launched myself into the air, arms outstretched, toward the Double Bass player, at the same time as my feet left the ground I heard myself yelling "HEY JOE !" I crashed into the bloke on the bass, knocking him off his feet we both ended up on the stage floor, confused he kicked out with his leg at me, in an attempt to protect myself I grabbed the end of his trouser leg. We rolled on the stage, the bass sliding away from us, I heard the crash of a falling cymbal and the screech of a guitar. By now we were getting caught in wires so the bass player pushed back toward me and the front of the stage, I was still firmly clutching his trouser leg as we both fell off the stage onto the dance floor. I was giggling madly and yelling " HEY JOE !"

I don't know who grabbed me, I don't think it was the band. Whoever they were, they had a limb each as I was barged into the night air via the fire exit. I don't know if they threw me on the fire or if I rolled into it but, when I came too there was a great sense of heat on my left ankle. Luckily I had been on fire twice before so there was no sense of panic as I rolled smouldering in the dust. I got to my feet and nearly fell straight back down. Stuff below the knee was solid, all above was rolling. Shit where are my glasses I thought, eyes began to register the scene and I spotted a pair of smirking teenagers sharing a joint on a picnic bench near the fire. To this day I don't know if I went back into that hall or not but I do recall the sounds of a banging party from within as I stumbled off into the night.

I was picked up half an hour later by some guys I knew form the town. Over the years, embarrassed at my conduct I tried to convince myself it was all a drunken dream. Trouble is, about ten years after the event I was down south in the very bar where it all began when I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Bloody 'ell" said a gruff voice "you were at my daughters wedding........."

Trailer Park of Terror

2011-04-25T13:52:00.007+01:00

Greetings Dreamlanders. I just remembered that I promised you an update on my recent shenanigans in Europe, so, Buckle up ! A few years ago Mrs Josh and I paid a visit to the Netherlands so that I could have a gander at Arnhem and Nijmegen, in particular the bridges. Whilst driving over the Nijmegen Bridge into the town for the first time an excited Dutchman pulled along side us and began waving his arms around and signalled us to follow him, after a moment of contemplation, we decided to comply. What followed was an impromptu tour of Nijmegen and the surrounding area. When the time came to part company with our erstwhile host emails were exchanged and an invitation to return to Nijmegen for the Market Garden commemorations was extended.

Thus, a few years later we returned to the site of the Waal crossing and were indeed present at the commemorations ceremony along with the Mayors of Arnhem and Nijmegen, the US ambassador to the Netherlands, the US Naval Attache, veterans of the battle and current members of the various units involved. We felt very lucky to have been present at the event.

Later we joined our Dutch friend from the Nijmegen Bridge and went to watch a paradrop from a DC3 over the actual 82nd Airborne dropzone. It was here that we met some of his friends, including Enigma, "The Helmet Guru". Enigma was a top bloke who could not stop talking, it seemed that there was nothing he did not know about WW2 helmets. He also drove a 3/4 Ton 4x4 Command Carrier. Also at the DZ we were introduced to the marvellous Mr Denmark. He was a gentleman who, though advanced in years, had keen eyes and an even sharper wit. He took one look at Mrs Josh and declared her to be of fine Viking stock. As for me he scrutinised my features for an age, before remarking upon my green eyes. With me he seemed much less satisfied, "MMMMM, the Vikings had slaves, you know ?" he finally announced. With these fine fellows we spent the next couple of days visiting various monuments and commemoration events but alas, all too soon, that phase of the trip drew to a close. With a heavy heart, we bade farewell to our extraordinary Dutch friend and headed north. Mrs Josh had booked us into a camp site for a little gentle R@R after the hectic schedule we had just followed.

When we arrived at our camp site we were confronted by a series of checkpoints, defensive horn works and one way systems. We were forced to park some distance from the site and walk to a "Reception Booth" staffed by some spotty faced arsewipe gap year student from Bristol who thought it was good idea to wield his not considerable power over Mrs Josh. Now, Mrs Josh had declared that the day had reached "Pastis o' clock" and was in no mood for his shit. Thus I retreated to the wall of pamphlets and pretended to be interested in the Antwerp Museum of Milking Implements whilst a new arsehole was torn. Leaving the whimpering wreck in our wake we drove to our Utilitarian Trailer and poured ourselves a drink. Almost immediately we attracted a pair of English Chav teenagers who actually thought that it was cool to ride around on little Go Karts designed for kids half their age. They stared at us with lifeless eyes and systematically rammed the bins with their remarkable charges. They reminded me of Beavis and Butthead. After our pre dinner drinks we walked down to the attached Theme Park. What we were to witness is difficult to describe. Imagine if you can, what Alton Towers would like if it was built in Communist Russia in 1958. Now imagine that someone released the T virus on it, then bombed it for a week. Now imagine that it was rebuilt by carpet salesman from Clitheroe who bought a load of second hand rides from an arms dealer. I swear one of the roller coasters was built entirely from scrap metal, most of which seemed to be suspicously painted Olive Drab. At the heart of the beast was an honest to god full size Attack Aircraft, complete with drop tanks and all too genuine bullet holes. It looked to me like it had been built to commemorate the Soviet withdrawal from the Bear Trap. I bet the pilot was still strapped in.

The park was terrifying, it was entirely populated by chavs from all over Europe who seemed to think that what you do on holiday is roam around in packs marking your territory. We decided to retire to the shack. Sat on our bird shit encrusted rotting furniture we ate our meal whilst the chavs from earlier rammed the bins. I was close to saying something when they suddenly fled. Walking down the little winding path from the park was group of Germans. Each and every one of them wore a Scorpions tee shirt. At the front were Mutter and Vater. They had no necks, massive hands and walked as if they had shat themselves (and liked it). They were only about 5ft tall. Behind them came the kids, my god, the kids! The first three of these little terrors, two girls and a boy, were totally malproportioned. Their heads were way too fucking small and as they swaggered down the path they attempted to kick the ducks that waddled by them. To the rear was the human equivalent of a Tiger Tank. His shirt was in tatters and he carried a large lump of tree in his hand. As he drew level I could clearly see his massive lumpen grey head and thought that I caught site of a sub-lingual tooth as he met my polite smile with a throaty growl. Shit, they were in the van next door. Mutter pulled upon the door and went inside. Moments later a stream of smashed and broken furniture, mainly chairs, was thrown out onto the grass. Mrs Josh and I looked at one another and silently agreed to go to the bar.

We returned hours later in the pitch black during the opening rumbles of a massive electrical storm. We were cutely confident that our neighbours would by now be locked up safe and sound. That was when I heard the howls, as we rounded the curve to our van there was a sudden flash of lightning and stood there, in the rain, still holding a lump of tree, was Sloth. His massive chest heaved with each intake of breath, his arms were outstretched in a Christ pose, his huge jaw hung down low and his tongue rolled across his crooked teeth. He was making noises like an Ape and he was soaked. From what I could see the rest of the Von Trapps were inside watching TV. We scurried inside and locked the doors. As the storm grew in its intensity around us I went to brush my teeth. Just outside the cardboard thin skin of the hut I could hear him, barley inches away, whispering sweet Teutonic nothings in the rain. I love a relaxing break, don't you ?

Game of War

2011-04-19T19:52:00.008+01:00

Greetings from Dreamland fellow voyagers, I am at last able to articulate to you a tale of the darkest terror. Prepare yourself for a voyage beyond the fragile borders of your feeble perception, a journey that only the brave will withstand. Do not take what follows lightly, it may perhaps be better that you should not follow, for to be wrapped in ignorance carries no shame, after all when one grasps the reality of the Mad what meaningful boast can be made ? For me gentle kindred, it is too late, for I have gazed deep into the rabbit hole and born witness to it's tenebrous designs. I have broken the veil of that blackest of water and caught the shapes of fearful geometry as they whirled upon it's speculum skin. Alas I have seen that the sky is hollow and the very earth itself is painted by terrible hand upon the fledgling hopes of fools. I have stood where the mountain giants fear to tread, where angles hid their wings, where that which lies within ceased to be and all that lay without roamed free. I have taken the heaviest step mortal man may tread and crossed to the other side, to Frangipane 2011.

Now, do not get me wrong, I do not have a problem with nerds my friends. I have been a geek all my life, I was nerd aeon's ago, long before all this Geek Chic crap, I was a true believer back in the days when the mearest mention of a warp drive was met with swift brutalisation. I held the line while the "IT CROWD" knew the score, danced to their atomic dustbin and proclaimed Cobain the second coming. I like nerds but the people at Wargame conventions just plain ain't right. Legions of bulging perspiring masses of redundant protoplasm waddling around a hall with single minded determination. Like a battalion of bulbous terminators with axes to grind they shuffle along like the damned, ears pricked, eyes narrowed by the sun, scanning with supernaturally keen senses for the first audible error. Passing a group of three particularly odious felons I overheard their silverback administer a lecture as to the correct shade of blue to be used for painting Uhlan regiments of Austro-Hungarian cavalry. His beta nerd made noises of admiration whilst the tertiary nerd hung his head in shame and made slightly un-nerving clicking sounds like a brain damaged baby dolphin. Through the corridors of their nest I travelled, passed stalls selling tiny scale barbed wire of the correct type to be used at the Somme, passed miniature Afghan compounds, burnt out T 34's, minute lead aircraft of the Battle of Midway, plastic warships, fine metal figures of Syrian Auxiliaries, on and on through the labyrinth of scale miniatures of every conceivable machinations de la guerre. Constructed by a million hands, the products of a countless poisoned minds that could cure the common cold in a shed in a single afternoon with a poxy rubber mould and a tube of white glue if it weren't for that tiny malfunctioning node located right next door to the mass murder gland.

I knew I had made a serious mistake by the time I rounded a corner into the "Real Conflict" hall. It seemed that factions existed within their society, between those who sought historical accuracy and those who had a secondary infection which allowed their already rampant imagination to strangle any sense or restraint and sail freely on the open seas of stupid fucking bullshit. Within the hall of accuracy such notable conflicts as "Vietnam", "Viking Era", "Roman campaigns in North Africa" and "Vampire Wars" were all treated to lavish and heavy handed nerd care. Not wishing to engage in any kind of discussions on the geo-political ramifications of the Anglo-Dracula confrontation I scurried off into the fantasy section. This simply made my situation much, much worse. I caught the eye of a large balding man with the most massive pair of glasses I have ever seen atop his giant ruddy head and the smallest stripey tank top known to man around his midriffs. Fearing for my sanity lest it speak I ducked behind the nearest partion and fixed my gaze on the little bags of plastic shit stuck to it. Before I could move one of the greasy bastards pounced and began to lecture me on the superior range of the feathered Thracian Elvish stellar assault craft. Panicked I demanded an explanation as to what fucking purpose feathers could serve on a starship but before I completed my sentence in swept another lunatic with venom in his voice and steel in his cold dead eyes. I swerved out of the danger zone as angry man unleashed a monologue of his own on the common myth of Thracian Elvish supremacy of the sub light spectrum. I left them like two great rutting stags and fled to the relative safety of the bar. Should some wild eyed maniac accost you and ask you to attend one of these "shows" with them, remember kids, just say no.

Too posh for nosh.

2011-03-26T16:37:00.011Z

Some last minute alterations to my plans for this weekend left an open slot in the ever hectic Logan Josh social calender. I had thought of popping into Toshi Station to pick up some power converters but Mrs Josh had other plans. She had heard tell of a particular village pub not too far from Logan HQ that had started to earn a reputation as a decent little eatery. The mission for today therefore was to visit and see if it was worthy of the attention of the great food blogger herself.

On arrival at the venue I must confess that our collective notion was one of trepidation but, nevertheless, we had booked so we were committed, perhaps in more sense than one. As we entered the dining room I immediately became aware of an elderly couple sat in the little bay window that overlooked the village thoroughfare. He, facing inwards, was wearing a houndstooth jacket and thick glasses and had the look of a racehorse owner. She, I did not have time to truly discern before the spotty youth showed us to our table. (though I had time to note her thick creamy woolen jumper and knitted midnight blue cardigan which gave her the look of a sort of Triassic Lesbian) I was made to stand to attention in the middle of the room whilst the pock marked youth gave Mrs Josh a menu and placed the specials blackboard on our table. Perhaps he had assumed by my Motorhead tee shirt that I was a fool and would not notice this protocol violation. That said, I waited patiently for him to finish and took the opportunity to attune to my surroundings.

It was only then that I registered that both occupants of the window table were men, and both equally posher than one would anticipate in such average surroundings. As we waited for our food we sat quietly and listened in on their conversation. They were both Cambridge old boys and I would guess well into their eighties. As they slowly ate their meal they began to recount tales of old friends long gone. One chap they spoke of must have become a monk after leaving Cambridge. He was, they said, far too intellectual to have joined the Franciscan's, but, we learnt that the fool had anyway. The horsey type bellowed "he should have gone for the Dominicans" his companion muttered guttural noises of approval, "Domini Cannes !!", more noises, "HA HA....Gods Dogs !" The companion chimed in with a voice wrestling the biggest plumb on earth, "Franciscans are idiots ! As are all Irish !" After a moment or two of chortling horsey retorted "I knew an Irishman once, intellectually thick, but kind". More laughter.

The companion was now in full flight, he gestured for the youth who obediently scuttled across. "Who wrote the blackboard" he bellowed "not me" the lad vaguely managed to muster. "How do you spell Halibut ?" he barked. "I don't know" the lad smiled "I'm dyslexic" Roars of laughter came form the table as the companion told the waiter "that's no excuse, ha ha ! there is but one L in halibut, it is spelt H A L I B U T" An awkward pause "we will take the dessert menu"

The arrival of the pudding list fueled more announcements "I do not care for cheesecake" "yuck ! Bloody Creme Brulee" Seeing their state the waiter politely enquired "is everything ok gentlemen ?" They dismissed him, horsey remarking how he and friends once dined in a Hotel only to be referred to as "Gent's" We learnt that this "irritated him beyond measure" I could share his point of view, but not for the same affront.

Eventually they were on their way leaving us to consider the food, which was frankly, crap. Then we registered the music, equally as crap. The whole event was a surreal little interlude, an aspirational pub failing to meet it's own hype attracting a mixed bag of diners unsure of where they had found themselves. Our own desserts were produced and I caught the glint in Mrs Josh's eye. "MMMMM, served to the wrong side" she noted. I took her point but could not help but feel that it would be more valid if it were not for the fact that as her mouth formed those very words the air was filled with the gentle melody of the theme from "Jurassic Park"

I'm a celebrity get me out of here !

2011-03-22T19:06:00.001Z

Losferwords.

It's hard to be a saint in the city, Inuit ?

2011-03-12T08:34:00.005Z

The second time I met one of these inscrutable northmen I was on a year out between my two phases of University study. Struggling to make any headway in finding gainful employment on my own I enrolled with one of those slightly sinister employment agencies who seemed to find you a job by casting chicken bones and runes over an old oil drum. Still, in the end, they found me a wonderfully bizarre job where I was to meet some more of life's true characters.

Weirdly, me and the rest of what was to be marketed later as an elite customer service squad were hidden in the rear of a factory complex that had nothing to do with what we were doing. There was a good mix on the team, the supervisors were post grad's on a year out before going onto further degrees. The rest of us grunts consisted of a range of ages and ethnic backgrounds, there were older white grandma's, a small group of Indians, an elderly Afro-Caribbean gent and a Pakistani bloke whose mum used to send a picnic of home cooked food for the entire team every Wednesday, which to this day was some of the finest food I have ever tasted. We all got along fantastically well and between us managed to cope with the odd circumstance we found ourselves in.

Two amongst this group have remained in my thoughts to this day. They had known each other since they started University together, and were like brothers, be it from different planets. The leader of the duo was a larger bloke with a little protruding bear gut, a taste for Hawaiian shirts and a phenomenal Hammond organ player. To protect the identity of the protagonists, we shall call him "Chris" (sorry Kris, where are you now man ? you still owe me !) His partner in crime was one of the most remarkable men I have ever met, we shall call him Eddie. Eddie was one of the smartest filthiest fools I have ever had the fortune to meet. He was always drunk or recovering from a cosmic hangover, he hardly ever seemed to bathe, his hair was always stuck up on end and splayed out like he was fighting an invisible fan, his tatty shirts were always torn under the arms and the top buttons were constantly undone. He was notoriously keen with his cash and hid it in a pair of blood stained "Y" fronts on his "bedroom" floor, a safety deposit box where even his long suffering girl friend would fear to tread. He smelt like warm strawberries and constantly ran his tongue over his top lip so that it was always glistening, I think he was truly quite mad.

We had all been thrown together to field telephone calls for a large company. We were each armed with a telephone and a pad of A4 forms. We were stationed at the back of a large building full of operatives much better dressed than ourselves who strutted about like prize cocks as they carried out their tasks for the buildings owners with quiet confident precision. They had shiny shoes, ties, headsets that weren't held together with string and were allowed to decorate their cubicles. One of them, amongst the hand full who ever managed to acknowledge our existence, was a snippy little prick who had changed his name to Fox Mulder, too bad for him he looked like Adrian Mole. By comparison we were nomads dressed in rags, refugees from the British education system with ambitions beyond our abilities and for the most part just the clothes we were stood up in.

Every few hours we seemed to receive new directives from the post grads who were bored rigid as they had nothing to do but take a roll call at the start of the shift and then spend the rest of the day making sure we didn't leave our posts. They would write the new orders on a post-it note, photocopy it, and then drop an A4 print out on our desk without a word. Day in day out, an endless stream of meaningless protocols were created, no swivelling on your chair, lower your chair so you can't see over the cubicle, don't stand when taking calls, on and on the gears tried to grind us in their whirling fury but we held fast and would not yield. The oddest one we recieved pointed out our lack of computers. It read "when filling out forms operatives should drum their fingers on the desk as if typing on a keyboard. This will serve to bolster customer confidence." This meant we had to say things like "I have your account number on screen, if you would just like to comfrim it" Then, fingers tapping on the desk, we would write down the numbers we were given in the "Account number" box of the form.

Inevitably this gritted determination meant that one by one we were dismissed, people's cubicles would suddenly become vacant as if they had been silenced by an unseen sniper. Over the weeks we eventually worked out that these brave souls were removed to a little glass fronted office in the corner of the vast hall where a third post graduate in a sharp power suit was enthroned. Only those who were fired ever got to meet her. We all knew that once they had dealt with the incompetents they would train their sites on the non conformists, those who could do the job in their sleep but had personalities too big to be held by a tiny cardboard cubicle. Chris and I could temper ourselves but we worried about Eddie.

He was becoming increasingly erratic as is home brew experiments took on a life of their own and threatened to melt what was left of his tiny addled brain. We tried to warn him, Chris especially, he took him aside and advised him in a fatherly tone that he was in their sights, but it was all in vain, the clock was ticking.

The hammer fell on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. One of the roster taking stooges came across and told him to unplug his headset. He was marched away to the "bad place" At first Chris looked pale but his face soon lifted "Oh my God !" he announced "This is it, he is finally going to grow up" he raised a hand to his chin in mild shock "He has proposed to Sarah, he needs this shit, for once in his life he will have to bite that shiny lip of his and plead for mercy, the little turd is gonna become a man" Across our ranks, one by one, people stood up and watched the show playing out behind that glass wall, this was it, The Big Show, The Main Event, When Worlds Collide, Eddie was fighting for his future. We could see the post grad wagging her finger at him, he remained seated and held out the palms of his hands, then he raised them and patted down the massive mess atop his bonce, his tongue flicking madder than ever. Then his friend sensed something, a minute change in the air "Oh God no !" he muttered, "He is desperate, he has never dealt with that before, oh shit, he's gonna panic !!" A pause "That's it, he is about to paint his master piece" Even as the words were spoken Eddie got to his feet and tore open his shirt. "I knew it" remarked Chris, his hand resting on his forehead "when faced with panic I knew he would have only one response, he means to woo her" The shirt was flung across the office and he was onto her desk, lying on his side he flicked his wirey hair, pictures of Michelle Pfeiffer in "The Fabulous Baker Boys" danced in my head. It was an explosion, a moment critical in time, there was no shame, just a master mad man at work. The doorman from downstairs arrived and Eddie was gone, and with him all that made us a team.

I could not adjust to the change and transferred to nights. That's when I met him, the steely eyed monster from the north, the Rural Sciences menace. Another bloody Inuit. No post-it notes circulated on the evening shift, no roll call was taken, no power suited assassins. Just him and the Telegraph crossword. On that first shift I was surprised to see him help the guys with their calls, speaking to the public. Normally the post grads refused point blank to get involved and no matter how much flak we got, we were on our own. I was dealing with a customer who was furious and had over stepped the line at the start of the call. We were supposed to end calls in three minutes but I was twelve minutes into a flurry of abuse and fury, this guy wasn't going anywhere, he wanted to vent his rage and I was the punching bag. He just kept on accusing me of personally causing him all his hassles, I, selected entirely at random by a switchboard computer in the back of a factory complex a hundred miles from him surrounded by all these misfits had found him and screwed him over.

Sod it, I asked the Inuit for help. He looked at me with a blank expression. "Is the caller asking for help ?" he asked, writing "barracuda" in the crossword "err, no" "Is he being abusive ?" I was asked as "transubstantiation" was written, "yes" I replied. He stood, removed his reading glasses and with no visible change showing on his face, said simply "then I will come" Perched on the edge of the desk wearing my headset he calmly sat nodding, humming small noises of agreement. Ten full minutes passed before he stood and said "yes sir I understand completely where you are coming from, I have heard all that you have to say and have taken it all on board and treated it with the due level of attention. With all due respect my team are customer service specialists, not therapists. So all I can suggest is go and fuck yourself" The headset was unplugged and placed gently on the desk "sorted" he said, returning to his crossword.

I left about two weeks later, I never saw the Inuit or Chris again. I did however, have one last chance encounter with Eddie. I was sat on a bus going up the main drag of the city where the factory stood. The main shopping street was a good couple of miles long and consisted of two slopes with a flat stretch at a crossroad inteersection. As we aproached the crossroads and indicated to turn right the bus driver slammed on the breaks. Heading along the road towards us in the opposite lane was a man, sat in a tartan armchair drinking cider, he pulled the chair along by rocking his slippered feet. The bus driver flashed his lights to him encouraging him to make his move. As he drew level with the driver Eddie raised his cider in thanks, as horns blared around him, he tucked up his feet and grinned as the armchair took off downhill at great speed.

Irritant Defined

2011-03-11T19:34:00.003Z

Un Stella Artois four s'il vous plais. Un Stella Artois four s'il vous plais ? What ? Here is an idea Mr oh so cleverer than the rest of us marketing guru. Go and fuck un self.

Signs and Wonders

2011-03-05T10:54:00.009Z

Sat once again in rain soaked silence in our delightful dining car the other day feeling roadworn and weary, my mind began to drift. Faces and places not visited in years began to drift into view through the creaky vail of time. Visions of a far off field came into view. The quaking image began to coalesce into meaningful form and I saw myself stood by a JCB in a beautiful sunlit meadow. AHH, I thought, I like the look of this. The sun nourished my battered skin, even as I merely remembered it's soft glowing fingers it seemed to add a warmth to my face. All was well. Oh, how poorly I know my own mind. The low constant hum of the machine's engine and the gentle rolling of the dragged earth as it yielded under the surfing bucket were suddenly joined by a wet squishing sound. The air was at once filled with the reek of bile and the numerous flies that hung around me as I stood were stirred into furious flight. My God ! that sound, like the tearing of cloth, rising in intensity until it was percussioned by a loud crack, like a dog padding on plastic. What was that shape ? The ground heaved slightly, ripping the turf, there was a light creak and out popped a single massive leg, free from it's earthly tether it yearned skywards like Excalibur freed from slumber. Shaking confusion from my mind I at once appreciated the form of a cow, lying on it's back, the bucket drawn across it's belly spilling it's guts, soft globulus potions mingled with the spongy ground. I needed air. Walking away from the Bovine terror I headed to a collection of outhouses in the corner of the paddock.

Leaning on the fence I fought the rising nausea as I sought to process the scene. Across the small compound from me a horse pawed the dusty ground with an unshod hoof. Rising and lowering it's head like a subservient wine waiter it snorted hot sticky breath into the ground, raising tiny dust devils. As I watched a chicken roamed into view, no sooner had it registered in my vision when the horse raised a mighty leg and stomped it to the ground with a sickening pop, with great haste the horse lowered it's massive head and scooped up the bird in it's mouth, neck muscles quivered as the little bird was drawn down into the belly of the beast. A loud crash rang and my mind was drawn back to the present, "Let's go play" a voice rang out. I drudged back out of the cabin toward the site. Do horses eat chicken ?

The Mancunian candiadate.

2011-02-26T10:55:00.012Z

I was sat the other day sipping a cup of tepid rancid coffee in our commodious hut at work when my mind was cast back to my school days. I recalled in particular the early years of my secondary education when I was placed in a remedial group. This group of beloved misfits spent a lot of their time down in the "rural sciences" block trying either to not drown whilst cleaning snot from the pond or strangle themselves whilst playing frisbee with the quadrangles. The rest of the time was spent trying to cut circles of paper in half with rubber scissors. Sometimes they tried to teach us by giving us a quiz. A rather imposing chap with an Errol Flynn moustache who frightened us because he was doctor would give us a list of animals. The list usually contained such exotic creatures as "Tiger" "Elephant" "Monkey" "Parrot" "Stick Insect". The suave cravatted doctor would then ask, "Which of these is the biggest animal in the rain forest ?" What followed was usually five minutes of quiet punctuated by the occasional fart. Eventually someone, usually a particular chap from my neck of the woods, who is a medical miracle because he has coral growing in his head, would stick up his arm and proudly answer "Stick Insect !". The good doctor's shoulders would slouch and with a roll of his eyes he would declare "clumsy answer from the back" I never could decipher the intent of these tests, sometimes it felt like some arcane CIA selection procedure, perhaps our little cadre of Baboons was being groomed for parachuting behind the Iron Curtain to reek havoc upon an unsuspecting Soviet Bloc.

The strangest thing I recall of those days though was the mysterious relief teacher. I am sure everyone recalls the poor unfortunate part time teacher dispatched at the eleventh hour to cover a class of kids whom they had never before had the good fortune to meet. Usually these poor souls would suffer terribly at the hands of a braying mob of kids who smelt fear. Not our relief teacher down in "Rural Sciences" though, no sir. He had skin like a Rhino, a neck like a Bull, and left me with a fear of Inuits for life. Where the school found this guy i will never know, but there is one sure truth in all of this, never, but never, fuck with an Inuit. He never even told us his name. As a result in the casual racist innocence of youth he was dubbed "Yella Fella" on account of his exotic skin. He would stride into our little ramshackle hut (or testing facility) and write the following words on the board with a crappy stub of chalk "which of these is more complex, a Zoo, a Cat, or Me ?" He would then sit at the desk and interlock the fingers of his hands, staring into the middle distance he would open his mouth merely to say, "Ruminate upon it" The eerie gormless silence of the shed would be punctuated with the usaul farts or snoring. He must have visited a dozen times and done the exact same thing, he never did get an answer but we were all too bemused and terrified to do anything other than stare at the trees in hushed subordination. Well, I say it ran smoothly, and in the main it did, save for one fateful day when one of the brethren thought they would challenge this hard skinned Arctic Hunter. The only thing the lad could think to do was to throw a lump of chalk at the fellow's head as he sat trance like behind the rotting wooden desk. Yella Fella, without flinching caught the chalk in his hand whilst springing forward. Standing in front of his erstwhile assailant he slowly pulled up his shirt to reveal a large deep old scar across his torso. Narrowing his eyes he slowly and deliberately said "See that ? Doncaster. Cretin like you....now behave"

I was promoted out of the remedials a year later and never saw that guy again, nor did I ever learn his name. The purpose of the tests or his question remain a mystery to me to this day. The nagging sensation that we were part of some odd cold war testing programme was only compounded years later when, as chance would have it, I found myself working for another Inuit as part of an elite secret customer service unit working out of an old factory, but that tale, dear reader, must wait for another day.

karate kid back to the apocalypse now versus alienatorzillator

2011-01-17T20:29:00.006Z

Trust me folks, this is gonna be HUGE. Why recycle one movie, why not get ahead of the competition and recycle several at once so that you deny others the opportunity. Here we have one such classic waiting in the wings to knock nine perfectly decent films off of their smug little perches. Simon Pegg stars as Marty McLaRusso, a fourteen year old martial arts fanatic tutored by Sensei Doctor Emmett Miyagi (Walter Matthau) a tortured Vietnam veteran/inventor, who seeks to lay the demons of his troubled past to rest by helping the young lad find his feet in the world. Disaster however, strikes at the kids first competition, or rather a freak bolt of lightning does, sending Daniel hurtling back through time and across space to the treacherous jungles of South East Asia. Now, against the odds Daniel must seek out and terminate renegade US Army Colonel Biff "mad-dog" Tannen (played with steely eyed menace by Macaulay Culkin). Thankfully Marty is not alone on his quest, waking aboard a River patrol boat crewed by veteran skipper "Chief" (an unrecognisable Art Garfunkel), cocky surfer Lance (George Wendt), spaced out Chef (Joss Ackland) and the innocent Clean (Wes Studi) all he has too do is convince them that he has been sent back in time and in the future knows their loyal friend Miyagi. Unfortunately for our Daniel he has not however, come alone. stalking the steaming jungles of a war ravaged Vietnam is a horror beyond the comprehension of mere mortals, the alienatorzillator. The inside is a hyper alloy combat chassis, the outside is quintessential Godzilla. Can Daniel convince the drugged up crew of this voyage of the damned to help him ? Can he evade the hybrid robotic giant space lizard ? Can he find Biff and right the wrongs of his friends past ? There is only one way to find out, go and see this future classic NOW, but, don't take my word for it, just look at what the critics say

"I really like Simon Pegg, i could watch him in owt" Crown Prince Albert of Monaco

"I loved the bit where that geezer gets it in the nuts" The Archbishop of Canterbury

"Better than Gigli" Fozzy Bear

Never get off the boat, or on the bus.

2011-01-09T13:25:00.002Z

Over the Yuletide holiday Mrs Josh decided that we should dabble in a little culture and ordered a trip to the museum. To add to the fun we would get to the museuem via the medium of bus, as Mrs Josh so loves the bus, for it allows us to mingle with the great unwashed. As we arrived at the bus stop i noticed two figures huddled in the shelter. The first was a rather scruffy looking young man, the other a kindly looking middle aged woman. To pass the time whilst waiting for our gilded chariot i strained my ears to their conversation, which went a little like this.

Man: Bah eck mam, thas got some stubble

Woman: Ar, but it's blond (she remarked with an air of satisfaction)

Man: (chuckling) Blond ? Hah ! more like brown

Woman: Yes, but it's only 'ere (pointing at tip of her chin)

Man: Arr, and there, and there, and there (pointing at her face)

At about this point he looked across and must have seen the queasy expression on my face. Thus startled he decided to change the topic of conversation to something more suitable for public.

Man: ere, mam, have you still got them clag nuts ?

Oh, how i love the bus.

2010-12-29T16:38:00.002Z

Hello loyal reader ! In the first of a new series set to have a regular run in 2011 i am proud to present to you the official Logan Josh review of the biggest film of 2010, Mike Leigh's Inception.

Unlike the work of his uncle Spike, Mikes taught script gives edgy slow burning characterisation producing well fleshed protagonists that draw you in from the first frame. The complex plot revolves around the resolution to plot themes first explored in his 1976 offering "Oranges are not the only fruit, other fruit options are available". Jack Douglas reprises his role as robotic expert Cecil Bumthwhaite, inventor of the adorable Number Five. Since the events of the first film Cecil has moved to the city where he lives in a truck and sells toy Number Fives on street corners. One day a chance encounter with a toy buyer, deftly played by Vernon Wells, gives Cecil his way out of the gutter. $50,000 can be his, providing he can churn out Number Five toys by the thousands. Offering to help the hapless Cecil is a street con artist, Fred, played with sinister undertones by Police Academy two's Bobcat Goldthwait. The pair begin to manufacture the toys in a warehouse but soon discover a network of tunnels dug by thieves seeking to rob a nearby bank. With things at there bleakest a surprise package arrives from Montana. Inside is the new and improved Number Five who now insists on being called Johnny Five. By far the least annoying aspect of the movie is the whole raft of new phrases, all gleaned from popular television shows, that constitute the improved robot's vocabulary. More annoying is the underlying themes of temptation, exploitation and the corruption rife in the mean city. If you enjoyed Three Colours Blue, this IS FOR YOU !

The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round

2010-12-11T10:04:00.013Z

You know how rage starts ? Real fucking small, that's how. Like a burning ember deep down in your soul it smolders, a tiny throbbing globule of spite from your heart. Then little by little the winds of your life fan that ember until it starts to grow, feeding on its self and the energy around it, growing in intensity until it finally explodes through you like a bullet fired from within a melon. You wanna know what fans my rage ? Stupid people, that's what. Now, you wouldn't know it from some of the things i have said over the years, but i like people, i really do. I'm alright with them for a little while, but once you get past around a minute, minute and a half, i gotta get the fuck out of there. Yesterday i found myself trapped on a bus, pinned against the window by a rather well to do sorta lady who clearly felt that the seats were way too fucking small judging by the way she helped herself to half of mine. That was fine, i could cope with that, that and the crazy heat. What i could not cope with was the moron behind me. Nothing so entertaining right than an idiot with an agenda ? Please, thrill us all with your acumen. The culprit was sat diagonally behind me, she was middle aged, had an over the top Estuary English accent, a vile fur coat (In the 21st century !) and a burning desire to speak at the top of her voice about cash machines, and in particular to compare and contrast machines at various locations in Yorkshire that had been lucky enough to host her. Here's another thing right, if you have a speech impediment why the fuck would you not cordon of certain words ? Why would you choose for example, when blessed with that whistling "S" that is the bane of many false teeth wearers, would you choose to actively seek out every word in the English language where the fucking S's hang out ? On and on she went, at full blast, drowning out the input from her diminutive travelling companion as she complained about the lack of standardisation in ATM's. The whistled S's cut the air like a vapid Exocet with a hard on for your brain stem, but not before it lingered a while to tell you about that Possssssst Office machine in SSSSSSSSSSelby High SSSSSSSStreet that SSSSSSSSSSSSstole her card lassssssssst SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSaturday whilssssssssssst ssssssssssssssssshewas SSSSSSSSSSSSShopping with SSSSSSSSSSSSSSally for SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSShoes blesssssssssssssssssssssssssssss her SSSSSSSSSSSSSSShe SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSStilll hassssssssssssssssssssss not SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSeen her precious SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSssnake SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSImon SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSInce he SSSSSSSSSsssssssssslithered away lassssssssssssssssssssssssst SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSsssunday.

On and on she droned, making sure that her voice was raised above that of the bus so that we could all drink form the brimming font of her knowledge. Any input from he friend was crushed and mangled, then spat back to remind her companion of her true station, as Junior half wit. Eventually she turned her sage and reasoned gaze on to the local authority and it'ssssssssss inability to porocesssssssss Council Tax for three propertiessssssssss on a sssssssssingle check. Lord Jesus Christ preserve us, there are people out there you braying mong that aren't lucky enough to own a fucking cheque book let alone three properties. So blow it out your hole. She got off at the same stop as i, but not before she barged into me to make sure she got off first. I, of course, did the polite thing, took the higher, and duly thanked her for educating me.

The semi-skilled Mr Shittly

2010-10-09T15:32:00.017+01:00

Dear gentle reader. I must apologise for my enforced period of absence from the scrolls of Dreamland, this has been due to an unspeakable horror that has befallen your noble scribe in the recent past. My life has, for a while now, been subjected to harrowing and sustained attacks from the vilest of creatures the universe can conjure. A monster of such wretched and abominable sub-human origin that it's very name has defied the mystics for centuries. We shall call it Al.

I first became aware that something was amiss when I found strange droppings by the skirting in the parlour. I remarked to Mrs Josh that we may have a rodent problem. Little did I know at the time that those little offerings were in fact the principle source of food for the Chimera that had darkened my door. It is hard to describe clearly how the following days unravelled, but as ever I shall try.

It began with the arrival of a new guy at work. He seemed charming enough, all glistening teeth and sharp threads. He was good-natured, generous and likable. By the end of the day no one could stand him. He sent shudders of hatred and anger up the spines of all that he encountered just by unleashing those teeth.

Feeling sorry for him I decided to make small talk. It turned out he had returned broke and destitute from an unspecified failed venture on the African continent. What was I to do ? This poor chap was in dire need of charity. I rang Mrs Josh and we decided immediately to offer this unfortunate chap a room until he could find his feet.

Within hours I noticed that he keenly watched my every move, studying the minuscule movements of my mouth as I spoke. He began to cultivate a moustache alarmingly like the one that I had worn for years, since my own time in Africa. He began to ape my movements, in particular the limp I had earned in the Congo. Eventually he began to mimic my voice with unnerving accuracy. What was his game ? Over the following weeks I began to fret more and more, he invaded my dreams, blurring the lines between what I knew and what I feared would come to be. At work people began to mistake him for me, he began wearing my clothes, presumably stealing them from the washing line. He developed a taste for Jazz and 17th Century Italian paintings, subjects all too close to Mrs Josh's heart. At night I could hear his inane mumblings reverberate throughout the house, the aspirations of a mad man. He had to go. And so it came to be that last week this loathsome toad of a man was thrown from my chambers never to return. I had my men look into this character to see what horrible truth lay behind the facade. It turns out that the fellows real name was Aldus Shittly, a lavatory attendant form Rotherham. He had borrowed a Princeton jacket to play electronic guitar at a garden party in Treeton and had been chatted up by the father of a chap that I was at Princeton with. It seems that this chance encounter gave him not only a taste of the high life but a dark desire to acquire it for himself by any and all means. Good thing I had nipped his dastardly and cowardly plot in the bud. Think upon this dark tale should you chance upon a shifty, greasy turd like creature buttering you up for his black needs.

Shittly arrives.

And gets to work.
Derided by peers.

Tales of Africa.

Josh takes pity.

The Ape awakes.

AWOL

2010-10-06T21:17:00.001+01:00

My house has got a roach problem. Once i have cleared that small problem i will be back with an update on my European adventures.

Remembering.

2010-08-09T16:44:00.018+01:00

I wonder what most peoples first memories usually are ? A family pet perhaps, the sea, sitting on their mothers knee ? I was home on the big game reserve recently and I wanted to check that what I thought was my earliest memory really was. You see as first memories go, mine is a little odd. First a little context. I grew up on a council estate in a market town in the North of England. Opposite my house was a large oak tree which stood beside the entrance to a large field directly in front of the house. My first memory was of a man leering out of that entrance dragging an extension reel across the road and asking if he could plug his big top in. Now forever burning in my minds eye this fella looked something like this

Well, turns out it was true. What's betting that guy actually looked like this ?

The circus was in town for three nights and they claimed that they needed power for the first night to light up a caravan or two whilst they got their generator rigged up. I think events must have run away from my poor folks and before they knew it a cable was running through an upstairs window INTO that Old Oak Tree and then into the field. My dad was terrified as every 10 minutes down went a double decker bus racing underneath that cable with an inch to spare. The circus folk (let's call them that) seemed to have a fleet of garish caravans to power, not to mention an illuminated ticket booth and a proper big top with thousands of lights. Furthermore this was not a crappy little circus like you get today, this was a full on touring nightmare that peeled of the motorway in the dead of night straight into the heart of our tiny one horse town. It even had lions. My dad said he was shitting himself laying in bed on a morning listening to these things roaring and pacing up and down their cages, scaring the elephant, which in turn woke up the monkeys and the bear. At night it was even worse, trying to watch Call my Bluff with "half the bloody jungle outside" I am told I declined their kind offer of being honoured with the duty of "barking for the Yak Woman" The worse thing was, when they moved on they left a massive pile of lion shit and severed sheep heads in the hedge bottom. Things, they say, ain't what they used to be.

They, Them, and Captain Kirks arm.

2010-07-24T09:06:00.048+01:00

Well I finally did it intrepid reader, I went to Bi-Mon-Sci-Fi-Con. I was there, and I was square. Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to witness. This event was held down in The Old Smoke at Earls Court 2. I knew that the thing would be busy but I had no idea just how busy. Nor was I ready for THEM. I had (foolishly perhaps) envisaged a gathering of delicate, happy, slightly dysfunctional souls gathering once a year for a celebration of all things Geek. Negative Ghostrider, these people were professional consumers of all the things that can be shoe horned it that corner of popular culture that is the staple of late night satellite TV channels.

The event consisted mainly, at least as far as I can tell, of a trading area that funneled you to the eagerly perched Celebs hungry to milk the fan boy cash cow. Arranged along the rear wall were about 20 or so actors and writers. For a fee they would write pretty much anything on a glossy 10 x 8 photo of their hammy mug. Those lesser demi deities simply had a bus queue going on but the bigger draws operated a "virtual Queue" system, a bit like the Deli counter or pharmacy. Once you had got your virtual ticket you had to fuck off out of the signing floor and go and consume until such time as your number was one of the batch stuck up on a white board by the signing area. Try and queue early ? not a chance cupcake, these masters of the universe had pit bosses, uber geeks, that patrolled the signing area ejecting those who dared to queue before their rightful time. Like produce these nerds were herded at a time entirely not of their choosing in to the line proper. They would then begin the excited shuffle nose to back with a hundred or more of their brethren to the promised encounter with the hero of their choosing. What could they expect ? perhaps some acknowledgement of their wretched existence from those more popular, more talented, more beautiful than them ? Hardly. At the point of purchasing your autograph ticket and complementary 15 seconds with fame you were required to write your own message on the back of the ticket. This effectively meant that the artist signing did not in theory have to speak to you. Additionally beside each of these God of Olympus sat a handler. A person whose job seemed to be removing the ticket from your expectant out-stretched hand so the Great One did not have to risk human contact. Still, through all this you think that THEY held the power. I am not so sure, I think THEY do not and the balance of power actually lay with THEM. They could write anything on their little ticket and I bet it would be transferred onto the 10 x 8. "To Colin, a man who has had more arse in real life than I have had on screen and who has a far superior chin" "To Sal, I cry alone at night because I am insecure and not you"

Roger TK-421. We caught a few of the celebrities trying to have a toilet break.

It does not end there though. It was possible to have ones photo taken with a celeb. An actual opportunity for CONTACT. This again involved the purchase of a numbered ticket, which seemed to mean nothing. When those pulling the strings deemed it ready you were summoned over a non-existent PA system to go and join another queue. It was in one such queue waiting to have a photo taken with an actress that I met a guy who told me he lived for these shoots. It was perfectly possible he told me, to grab the ass of any celeb in these situations as they took so many pics in a short space of time that they would not really be time for complaint. Further more the look of horror generated by this intrusion was sure to ruin the shot allowing for a re-shoot. Two pics for one and a cheeky feel. Jesus man. What was he on ? He surely was not gonna grab a handful of caboose, that would lead to a complaint and and a charge of indecent conduct. What he was living for was the chance to brush his hand stealthily around the general arse area of a minor celebrity. I felt so ashamed. I just wanted to be out of there as quickly as possible, these people were MAD.

During the wait a dreadful panic ensued. SHATNER HAS ARRIVED someone bellowed, and your photo queue is interfering with his autograph queue ! Here he was, ZEUS, king of the mountain, The Shat, The man with all the aces. No one, but no one, fucks with the king baby. He was like a one man circus. As far as I could tell an entire complex was erected the instant he set foot in the building. This was screened off on all sides and the queue snaked through a series of horn works erected to prevent casual snaps being taken. No way I was gonna trifle with this.

The Shat knows.

I was intrigued as to what the experience might entail though, so I hung around the exit, the 6' 2" sphincter ejecting a smiling turd (nerd) every 1.2 seconds from the whirring Shat machine. (I was told later that such is the demand that one thousand signatures an hour were not uncommon for the Captain) As I stood there amazed at the scale and precision that this operation required I overheard an Irishman waiting for his mate to be ejected. As he emerged grinning clutching the obligatory publicity photo the Irisman asked him "Did you speak to him ?" "No" grinned the nerd. "Did you see him ?" "I saw his arm" gushed the nerd "Wow, THE arm" quipped the Irishman adding "Can we go and get a fookin pint now ?"

Clearly this was not every ones cup of tea. Me ? I thought it was fucking brilliant ! I got to meet some really cool and talented people, Kristanna Loken, Ted Noonan, Nicolas Courtney, Julian Glover, Sean Pertwee and the awesome Katee Sackhoff. Don't delay people, go today !

Man's inhumanity to his fellow man.

2010-06-11T10:20:00.025+01:00

Now I am a laid back guy people, and I am in touch with my inner geek. That said, can anyone tell me what this shit is all about ? I have always considered the possibility of a Bi-mon-sci-fi-con "Be there AND be square" as an enticing one but frankly, these guys scare me. I can understand meeting a performer that you rate, shaking their hand and commenting on their body of work but, doing that dressed as them ? As their arch enemy who's name they can't remember played by that asshole with the bad breath and attitude problem ? As a piece of EQUIPMENT ?????? Do these guys think these people are gonna take em seriously when they have come dressed as a vehicle ?

"I love you man, God I love you Lando !!!!!!"

"Billy Dee Williams actually mate, I am an accomplished painter, singer and actor. I have been in film and television since the 1950's and have worked with a range of Hollywood greats but thank you, it really helps my self respect in my later years to talk to fine young people, such as yourself, dressed... as a tibanna gas mine"

It's like Bill Shatner said, "why are all my fans obsessive middle aged men with beer guts ?"

So without further ado, I give you, THEY.

Flash. He's a really, really fast runner.

"Aren't you a little short for a twat ?"

Run for your life ? or give it a wedgie ?

Ask yourself sir, am I playing to my strengths ?

The destroyer of worlds finds time for a bit of shopping

"What's in the bag Galactus ?"

"Twilight New-Moon"

I recognise Engelbert Humperdinck but.....

Erm........I can SEE your legs

What Skeletor should have come as. At least this guys sweaty hand will not bother any of the artists with requests for handshakes, nor will it bother, I wager, the small port, right below the main port.

Did you come by public transport ?

"Lord Vader, we were not expecting you"

I give unto the world, Franken-beaker

Way to go asshole, when I was a kid I loved Beaker, now he is a figure of terror

And finally if you catch one and peel them, this is what you get.

One day I will risk it, one day I will brave their ranks. One day I will walk among them and taking my inspiration from wildlife documentaries, I shall construct....... a hide.

The old Razzle-Dazzle

2010-05-24T18:23:00.004+01:00

Sunday saw a return, dear readers, to the site of the post-apocalyptic pensioner party. A visit to the splendid Holderness coast for the purposes of visiting relatives. These are no average pensioners though. They are known to embark on an adventure or two. They went to see the Jackass movie at the cinema when it came out as they thought that it was a film about a donkey. From talking to them I think they watched an awful lot of the film before they left. In fact I am pretty sure they saw Dave England take a crap in a hardware store.

A visit to see these two characters usually involves a fairly set pattern. Arrive, drink cup of tea and have a biscuit, catch up on gossip, pub lunch, stroll, afternoon tea. This Sunday they had us booked in at one of the favourite spots for lunch at 1pm. Arriving at said venue we all tried to pile in through the front door only to be stopped by a perplexed landlord who thought that we were mad. "Have you not heard ? he said, we have been on fire" Sure enough the upper floor of the pub had clearly suffered the ravages of fire and there were notices on all the windows and the door. We were just too hungry to read them or care.

This turn of events prompted a change of plan. Fish and chips and a pint. Off we trudged into town. Following the English classic our intrepid hosts had a debate about where to go for a drink, finally settling on one of the larger pubs in town with the ominous distinction of being the "one with music".

Oh it was music alright, of sorts. Pensioner Karaoke. With your host, Les. Les, bless him, was pissed. He would start a song, only to shuffle about, pounding his head in frustration. muttering strange utterances "urr..........'kin Matt Munro....errrg....Munro.......arzum......Bassey ? No no no no...Munro?" A flick of a switch "aha Munroe" stumble back four steps, shiver, twist, back straight, start singing the chorus of any Matt Munro song as the second verse of a Shirley Bassey classic fills the room. Les was brilliant. He told us he was only on till five then he was off "on the old razzle dazzle" A woman form Hull offered to go with him, "you best have more than three pound fifty on you love, cos I CAN DRINK" was his sage response.

Our hosts were concerned that we were not enjoying ourselves but it was great. They of course had the benefit of being a little Mutton, as it seemed Les had not located the volume controls. From time to time some of the locals would take a turn. A hefty woman with a pug nose and one tooth treated us to a surreal rendition of Abba's Fernando. A wild eyed old man wearing bits of at least three different suits and an OCD for picking bits off the floor whilst singing belted out a tortured portrayal of Diamonds Are Forever. He even did a little impression of James Bond, so what if it did come across more Inspector Frost, details people, it's all about the details. He and the large woman did a free form jazz version of Stevie Wonders "I just called to say I love you" He altered the line "bottom of my heart" to "bottom of her arse" A nice touch.

In the middle of all this was a pleasant if disturbed chap called Jazzy Gary. It was Jazzy's birthday and he was celebrating with a pint. A pint EVERY six minutes. Jazzy had a massive forehead. This huge protuberance seemed to be made of lead. It was so big that it seemed to be the key orchestrator of Jazzy's movements. The second he stood up, this forehead, bereft of any form of stabilising mechanism, would lurch off in a random direction leaving the rest of Gary to try to keep up. He would trot on dutifully only for it to make a snap turn like a light cycle from Tron. Gary would bare his teeth and narrow his eyes and swerve the rest of his not inconsiderable bulk in an attempt to keep up. To be fair he could ride that forehead, but the appearance was that of a great Rodeo King wrestling with a legendary Mustang. He had learnt to compensate for these sudden pitch and yaw fluctuations by taking short flat steps. And so it was, every six minutes, Jazzy would stand up and attempt to weave past whoever was singing, not to mention Les and his control table, on his wild ride to the bar.

"Same again Jazzy ?"

After we left and rejoined the hollering kids, bewildered elderly, tattooed aggressive women and lobster pink chavs with t-shits on their heads, I felt a flush of respect and understanding for the spectacle we had just seen. A modern day freak show, a bunch of outcasts, gathered together to butcher every clubland hit going. All power to them, they were all singing their hearts out, having a couple of pints and a natter. More to the point this little gang had the savvy not to be mixing it with the thronging masses of idiots outside. One day I shall return, and unleash the clubland beast that lives in me. Mr Barry Sultana. Your time may just have come.

The Trail of Tears.

2010-05-19T18:16:00.020+01:00

AH, R@R, furlough, a break. An attempt to catch up on rest, get some sleep and recharge ones batteries. Or spend 3 nights in a one star hotel with a bunch of freaks OD'ing on booze and chips talking shit (sometimes actual shit) and wandering around the English countryside in an attempt to look urbane (and kill time until the pub opens). This time my destination was Ely, home of the grand cathedral known for it's beauty, a jewel in the crown of England. Eight of us descended on the burg on Friday, it did not know we were coming, if it did it would have got out of the way, or at least closed for the weekend. These things usually follow a pattern. The Friday night involves drinking a gallon or so and letting off some steam topped off by a curry. Saturday morning, after a hearty breakfast the sage elders announce a walk to some place of interest. By sage, I of course mean, witless oaf, by walk I mean forced march, and by "place of interest" I mean the back of beyond. In this case the village of Littlepoint.

The route started off nice enough, walking through the town centre down to the Great Ouse before hanging a left to follow the banks of the river. All seemed well and the walk itself was even named in tribute to the brave men of 1st British Airbourne.

After a short while the urban fringes left us and we crossed a small bridge erected by the local waste company, passing through a hedge to emerge in a fairly tranquil meadow. I say fairly because the main railway line ran through it and there seemed to be a bloke pleasuring himself as the trains trundled by.

GRUMBLE SPLITSKIN

Not to worry I mused, river looks nice and the boys at the top tell me there is a beautiful waterside pub at the end of the six mile route. Soon we turned away from the river and headed through a second hedgerow gap to arrive at a rather lovely industrial estate. We skirted around it's razor wire perimeter and came across a local monument.

I have no clue as to who Les was but it seems someone felt it fitting tribute to the man to stick a bland tin plated sign to a gate in the wire fence in the back of beyond where only tramps, desperado's, train wankers and pigeons would see it.

We stayed a moment in serene contemplation at the solemn edifice (some of the oldboys were flagging) From this odd vista we pressed on over a bridge that crossed the river. The deck of the structure was clad in what seemed to be flimsy boards that had curled in the rain. Once safely over this choke point we followed the opposite bank of the river for a mile or so, passing first the delightful asphalt plant, and then the breathtaking tar pits.

By now there was a growing sense of unrest in the ranks and our leader, The Earl of Heworth had to wrestle to keep control. Sideways eyes were shot at the route master and engineer of this folly, the fake Geordie aristocrat. He himself attempted to save his sorry arse from the impending fury by taking an aloof stance. He told us he would be soon rich beyond our stunted dreams when he convinces the navy that human shit could repair punctures in submarines (due to the stubborn clinging properties of some fecal matter which grip porcelain bowls whilst submerged below the surface of the water/waves). This performance seemed to serve only to make things much, much, worse.

We pressed on through the industrial zone and out passed the camp of the exiled former ruler of Cruddova.

The screams of wild dogs and the groans of imprisoned enemies of the island empire pushed us onwards. We now followed a long straight stretch of river for nearly a whole hour. Which river did this berk have a map of ? The Kwai ? My fevered sun stroked mind began to spin. On arrival at the village would my request for a cider be
met with a curt "You build bridge now" ?

There were murmurs of mutiny. This was not helped when Fang grabbed the map and it was discovered that the scale was wrong. The walk was more like ten miles. On we trudged under an unforgiving sun until at last hope was renewed by the sight of a church spire in the distance. An hour later we arrived at the promised Ale House. Moral soared, Fang stooped frothing and Dave's stopped muttering "Lock and load" under his breath. We staggered to the door to discover........

The bus ride back was oddly quiet.

A day at the museum

2010-04-17T15:27:00.009+01:00

Tuesday April 13th 2010. My work kindly gave me a days leave and so off I went to Elvington to welcome XV250 to her new home. Dave's came round early doors and off we went. By 0930 we were sat with the rest of the freaks in the naffi. Quick bit of scoff then off to the flightline. A bulletin had been placed stating the time of arrival as 1015. With predictable aplomb the boys in light blue were an hour late.

"So, rather than waste bullets I just pulled along side and flipped him over with my wing, he ploughed into a council estate just outside of Margate, spiffing. I say, will somebody answer that bloody telephone ?"

"Sir its the FAC on the line, the RAF are delayed by 30 minutes, they have to feed the dog"

"30 minutes, oh thats fine, I still have 5 bullets left and I must say that those guys are starting to look bored, maybe they will go away anyway"

About 25 mins before the Nimrod arrived Oddjob turned up and joined us. Whilst the three of us were waiting we were approached by a young woman from Minster FM who asked if she could talk to us. Sure, why not. Why, she enquired were we there ? Because we are borderline autists love I said, if I were not here I would be at home, counting peanuts, in my shed. Baffled she asked Oddjob, who helpfully pointed out "I don't know why I am here, I have a mental condition, if I see a crowd I have to join it" Throughout all this Dave's just kept saying "Fire Engine" Poor lass wandered off wondering if she had just encountered a sociopaths day out. Still, helped us to pass the time.

The evening was spent in an old mans pub in town with the added presence of Raffles. We entered the pub quiz and came second, winning a Toblerone. Raffles seemed happy, Oddjob less so. Top nerds day out.

Why do they call them joke shops ?

2010-04-12T16:38:00.003+01:00

Out and about at the weekend taking in the splendour that is Yorkshire I decided to pay a visit to a fancy dress shop. Once a year I take an extended weekend R@R with a bunch of guys that I know from my drinking exploits. There are a few traditions to be observed on these trips, one of which is my arrival at the venue in some form of fancy dress, the more stupid I look the better. My travelling companion (we travel in pairs for safety) wears an outfit that matches the theme.

In the past we have done various themes, including arriving dressed as priests. This time I was hoping to go as a Roman Catholic priest. Thus we could recall the great film "The Cannonball Run" I would be Sammy Davis Jr, and my friend who is considerably taller than I, Dean Martin.

In I went to the emporium with my usual high hopes that everything would be alright. I had been in there maybe thirty seconds when there appeared a thirty something woman. She began to trail me around the shop, stuck to me like glue less I steal a fivers worth of plastic sovereign rings.

"Can I help you" she said, with an air of someone who would perhaps prefer it if no actual customers came into the shop.

"Erm, yes, I am looking for a Cassock, do you have one" I said. At least that's what I thought I had said. It turned out I had actually said "jnjbdb ngjrewrg klllnjjnrrg"
The woman seemed to stop breathing and stared blankly into the ether. Half a minute passed. I was getting enveloped in a cloud of polite embarrassment when I caught her left eye twitch. I seized her involuntary muscle spasm as a chance to throw her a life line.

In a clear and vaguely aristocratic tone "A C A S S O C K You know, the robe worn by a Roman Catholic cleric"

"Oh !" she exclaimed "yes, follow me" She lead me through the shop to a large room at the rear where all the costumes for hire were shelved. She began confidently thumbing one of the rails. Her nimble fingers ran through the rail of garish garments like an Exocet looking for trouble. No need to panic, I mused, professional at work.

"Here you go" she said, passing me a Toga. Well I say Toga, it was offered to me as a "Roman thingy" The dive klaxon in my head powered up and began to shriek " ABORT ABORT ABORT"

For the love of God ! Forget the cassock. What else do I need. Ah yes. A crucifix. My small silver one had been lost on a previous adventure. "Don't worry love, that really is not my colour. Do you have a crucifix ?" Crucifix ? The stare was back. She looked as if I had asked her for the lung box of a Wolf Spider.

I was getting frustrated, she was getting angry, presumably because I wasn't asking her for any of the objects that I could plainly fucking see for myself. Balls to it. Sod that. Maybe something could be salvaged. "What about rosary beads, do you have any of them at all ?" I think at this point her razor sharp skills of perception kicked in. I was clearly a mad man who had mistook her joke shop for a hairdressers or something. She began to smile and nodded her head like you do to foreigners on holiday who ask you for directions in their native tongue. "Yes, yes, of course" she said, passing me a little plastic bag of white beads labelled "Charleston Beads". There was even a little picture of a 1920's flapper on the packet. This was like walking into a tea room, asking for a cup of Earl Grey and then receiving two pickled eggs.
"No thanks love. I have made a mistake."

Thank god she didn't offer me a Cossack.

Memory Lane

2010-04-10T11:23:00.004+01:00

As I enter a new year of my existence on this shite hole that we call home I cannot help myself from feeling a wiff of nostalgia. Tonight I will have a few drinks with some close friends but I cannot help but wish that I could take them to a favourite watering hole from my youth. Namely Woburn House, aka Dirty Thirty. Yorkshire's first and only crenelated nightclub. Yes, you heard it right, a night club, converted from a Working Men's club, complete with battlements. It even had two fake cannons above the door, Napoleonic jobbies. This monstrosity stood in the middle of town, right next to the new cop shop that I think was sited there to allow the police to make regular raids without having to walk across the precinct. It stood in quite protest to dreary town life like the mighty fortress at Helms Deep.

There were three glass doors at the front that lead into a tiny bar area, once you had a pint you went under an interior stone clad arch into the dance hall. This large square room had tables arranged around the sides but best of all along one edge was a long wooden counter where you could rest your beer and observe the thronging cattle market. In amongst the spotty youths and their desperate fumbling resided a living legend. The Man-in-White. This guy was about 65 and 5ft 3". He had a white dress shirt which he always wore like Lemmy with only the bottom button done up, revealing a large cheap medallion. He looked like a geriatric Dr Strange. He used to dance on his own to one side waiting for the young lasses to take to the floor. When they did he would kind of half shuffle and half stumble up to them and one by one spin around so that he briefly danced with all of them, never talking, never even looking up. Mr Happy Feet just lived to dance. For years he owned that floor like a wizened piss stained northern Tony Manero. Unchallenged he reigned supreme until the arrival of a stranger. A man dressed from head to toe in black. The Man-in-Black was a little taller and a little younger than Man-in-White. He too wore a shirt only fastened at the bottom. This allowed him to reveal not only his wispy chest rug but also the seven pointed Zantar that he wore. That's like a medallion, only twice as big and ten times tackier. He had a large moustache that dripped bitter and a quiff dyed brown by his ever present cigs. By the way his hair remained stationery as he performed his remarkable moves I think that he most have encased his barnett in lacquer.

"Tracy love, your arse is out"

I was there the night they first met. Mr White and Mr Black. The proud King and the feisty Pretender Prince. No words were spoken. They stood face to face and jiggled their hips awaiting the arrival of their quarry. Once the lasses were on the floor to the latest Banannarama hit they both spun on their heals and entered the frey. The girls began to panic, spinning from White only to meet Black. They would take it in turns, upping their game, new and absurd shapes were thrown as they chased ever prettier lasses.

After about three months a DJ booth was added in the corner complete with dry ice. The DJ would wait until either Black or White was in range and then blast them with a jet of smoke. Sometimes the old duffers would get lost in there for ages, spinning frantically for minutes. On more than one occasion they entered with a lass only to emerge dancing with each other. Without a hint of shame they would just shuffle away from one another and rejoin the hunt. I could watch these guys for hours. Even better the club had an attached cocktail bar, the Pina Colada Lounge. In there was a hatch through to the kitchen where you could purchase Yorkshire pudding and onion gravy at two in the morning. The last I heard this place had bought a second hand laser that they bolted to the roof. Unable to spin this finger of light just pointed straight up, luring in the occasional 737 on finals to Leeds Bradford.

They don't make em like that any more !

End of an era.

2010-03-28T12:47:00.013+01:00

After more than three decades patrolling the seas around this great isle the mighty Nimrod has breathed it's last. The MR2 (Maritime Reconnaissance) version of the Nimrod based at RAF Kinloss in Moray have been retired a year earlier than previously thought. A few will be spared the scrap mans torch and preserved in museums across the country. One, Nimrod MR2 XV250 will shortly fly into RAF Elvington on the outskirts of York where it will be preserved in full ground operational capability. As a borderline autist I always find it sad when the RAF retire a key system like the Buccaneer, the Jaguar, etc and will hopefully be at Elvington to see the arrival of the old hunter.

Now the Nimrod may be a design classic but over the years the RAF has flown some pretty horrendous creations. I was having a discussion about this with an old friend of mine when we discovered a worrying trend in British aviation design, namely an obsession with architecture.

Take for example the Avro Anson. This design was clearly based on the domestic green house of a 1920's suburban villa, it even came with an attached stellar observatory.

Then there was the Vickers Wellington with it's lovely leaded windows.

The ludicrous Boulton Paul Overstrand with it's nose mounted Oriel Window.

The mental Fairey Hendon and it's rustic board and batten fuselage.

The Vickers Wellesley "an arts and crafts nightmare"

The terrifying Armstrong Whitworth Whitley "a barn with a geodesic dome glued on either end"

Who knows what secret projects are yet to see the light of day, bombers with Rococo interiors ? flying boats with crenelated wings, planes designed by madmen with porches for noses ?

And lets face it, it was not just the aircraft that were something of a laughing stock to the progressive square heads.

"do you know what this needs sarge ? A pretty little balustrade"

Top Tip for the Tip Top

2010-03-22T16:29:00.007Z

Vlad the Impaler posted on his blog about the Oscar winning movie The Hurt Locker. He suggested that it was worth a look. My god was he right. It is an amazing movie. It may well be the BEST war film of all time. For those of you undecided I will post a plot outline below, you know, like you get on the back of the VHS box.

Staff Sergeant William James is a career man for whom his work comes before his family. His girlfriend Connie cannot take this anymore, so she decides to leave him. William is now faced with the tasks of housekeeping and taking care of himself and their young son Billy. When he has learned to adjust his life to these new responsibilities, Connie resurfaces and wants Billy back. William however refuses to give him up, so they go to court to fight for the custody of their son.

It's amazing right. Staff Sergeant William James is played by James Earl Jones who also played Amos Brearly, the landlord in Dempsey and Makepeace. Connie is played by Hattie Jacques right, who was brill as the baddie in Woody Allen's Commando. There is some talkin in it which takes away from its overall goodness but there are three killings (two strangles and a hammer attack) See it now !!!

Hattie Jacques as Bennett in Commando

The joy of blog

2010-03-21T14:02:00.005Z

As an experiment to test the general quality of blogdom out there I have decided to conduct a quick experiment. I am going to post the first paragraph from the first three blogs selected by using the "next blog" button at the top of the page. Then we cam all get a little feel for whats going out there. Ready ? Here we go.

If you are a frugal traveler and have thought about visiting Bali previously, then you must read THIS article by the NY Times. The article was written in 1998 but the costs haven't changed that much since the article was written.

CBF Diamond in the Skye came home. Skye was Joie's first kid. She singled that year after being bred to PrairieWood Dreamweaver. Skye was a farm favorite and I never wanted to sell her. She is, in particular, my 6 year old's favorite. But Skye was born with a little teat defect and I made a mountain out of a molehill.

This is a little bag I needle felted last night. The flower is needle felted wool, with a yellow alpaca center. The bag is brown alpaca, also needle felted. The handle is baby alpaca in beige and white blend. Fun!

Faced with insights such as these I cannot help but feel that it may be time to throw in the towel.

Wisdom and the truth of all things.

2010-03-17T20:09:00.002Z

I'll stick my plonker on the table and i won't take it off unless i get my mushy bloody peas......as long as.......as long as we don't turn everything in to a sense........of bloody.......is there any happycy in the world?....is there not some humour in violence, is'nt there for christs sake ? All this....all this.....mumbara..Line it up all the time. Line it up all the time. Your bileness has to rise. Would i know anything madam? Does a motorbike know it's a motorbike........mmmmber......it justs brrrrrrrrrr...ur......brrrrrr. And thats life.

Redeployment

2010-03-13T10:25:00.005Z

Just a quick update on goings on in Dreamland. Operation Holly Willoughby is drawing down now, the first job is done and the second is on hiatus which means that I am to be redeployed. In a way I am sorry to leave Hull behind, for all I knock it the truth of the matter is I have a soft spot for the place and the people. I cut my teeth there really in a sense and though I find some of the people to be utterly mad I love them for it.

So, where now you may wonder. Well the answer to that is simple. Out west to work with Lord Stanners . I am looking forward to this, it will be good to catch up with him. No doubt within the first ten seconds he will be gloating that his town did not have to weigh in it's brass band or strip the copper from it's Nunnery roof.

You see, bless him, he thinks that his home 20 is some how more idyllic than my neck of the woods. Well it's true, we did weigh in the brass band but the mayor said that the town needed the cash to pay for a new puppy hostel. In addition to this I should like to point out that our nunnery roof is also just fuckin dandy thank you very much.

Still, his gloating aside it will be good to hear his views on the world once more. I recall one occasion working out on the east coast when we went to the chippy at lunch time and two track suited local youths were walking toward us on the path. I could see that they would love to have a rumpus so I stepped off onto the road as we walked passed. Stanners was having fuckin none of it and walked straight at them, knocking into the side of one of them as they passed each other on the pavement. No sooner had this occurred than Stanners remarked in total contempt "Hmmph, they're no athletes". I tell you, no one else on the planet is capable of making such an observation in quite the same way.

Finally I have to point out two other things that have crept onto my radar of late. Firstly check out this interview regarding a new creature feature that has just gone into pre-production. If they can get the tone of this right, and I am thinking of The Keep here rather than bloody Outpost, this could be a little gem.

Secondly a mate of mine is a big collector of aviation art and has got me somewhat hooked on the subject and I just had to post a link to this amazing new print

Keep watching the streets people, the bastards are out there.

Setting the record straight.

2010-03-07T09:16:00.012Z

Tonight tinsel town celebrates the wealth of artistic talent that has contributed so much to our education. Now it may come as a surprise to you, dear reader, but Hollywood are no different to the French when it comes to taking credit for stuff that they did not do. I have lost count of how many times in some quiet French sea side town I have had to argue with a Maître d' over the birth place of Shakespeare. I do not understand the basis of the French claim that he was born in Toulouse, nor can I fathom the notion that the bloke who played The Fonz was born a simple peasant in the Bocage. Now I aim to educate my fellow traveller, so here are a few tips for things that the French will tell you were born in France, that in fact were not.

France is not the birthplace of:

Reggae

Karate

Tea

Art

Man

Buddhism

Nascar

Henry Ford

Winston Churchill

The Simpsons

Optimus Prime

Nor, for the record, is it the source of the Nile.

It IS the birthplace of Napolean Bonarparte. Always feel free to point out that the English translation for this is "Little General" and remind them that he is buried in a matchbox on the Cornish coast.

This brings me to my next point. The shoddy interpretation of historical events as portrayed in Hollywood blockbusters. This is something that I do not feel, that in good conscience, I can take any longer. As such, as Hollywood prepares for Oscar night I am proud to unveil the first images for my homemade epic Operation Secret Bomb to Blow up Hitler. For those of you who do not know there were some in the German Army who felt Hitler was a loon and plotted against him. The man selected to place a bomb in the Wolfs Lair was one Gustavus Adolphus van Halen. What follows is a description of the real events of that fateful day in August 1826. In Texas. In America. USA.

Now I clearly do not have at my disposal the kind of cash that Hollywood can throw about but, that's ok, cos I am going for a more intimate Terrence Malick vibe.
I am a little worried about having to use toys for the big set pieces though. Please be honest, can you spot Hitler in this still ? (feel free to enlarge the image, this may help a little)

Sadly the bomb failed to do much damage to Hitler cos the food obsessed Van halen placed the device in the Wolfs Lair Sausageküche which adjoined the main briefing space. Hitler was suspicious that someone was out to get him so ordered that his personal Tiger Tank be brought up form the garage, so that he could do a runner.

The whole thing though was an Allied trap and waiting to stop him and give him an Alabama ass whooping were lead elements of the elite US Task Force Mayhem. A super secret unit led by Indiana Jones.

Hitler though, despite contemporary historical accounts, was a cunning leader and had for months been negotiating an alliance with the Cylon Empire. The Battle of Serenity Valley, as it was to become known, marked the first combat deployment of the Cylon Centurion model 101.

For the Führer it was a case of too little too late cos the Yanks had been working on a secret weapon. A 60ft mechanical Elvis that could fire flame from his fingers and leap up to an astonishing 12ft in the air.

Thus the trap was sprung and Hitlers Goose was well and truly cooked. Look for this on video shop shelves and car boots near YOU some time next spring.

For those who are interested Colonel Count Klaus Schenck von Stauffenberg

The Oscars

2010-03-06T09:54:00.007Z

It's nearly Oscar time and all the tinsel town chelping got me thinking about the great and the good that I have met over the years, so here, for you to only look upon with jealousy burning in your eyes, is the list.

How I spend my weekends.

1. Cyril Smith (heaviest MP ever) Mocking my need to go to University to get a degree (he got them given) outside The Grand in Scarborough. He seemed like a cool bloke.

2. Ricky Tomlinson Followed him up the stairs in a book shop and stood on the back of his shoe crushing it with my work boot.

3. Melvyn Bragg That posh fella off of the South Bank Show. Wanted directions to the Barbican in York. Adressed me as "My good man" Seemed like a nice enough bloke.

4. Noel Redding Grumpy one time Experience bass player. Met him back stage. It was only the next morning that I noticed he had signed the autograph sod off. I liked him.

5. Eric Bell One time guitarist with Thin Lizzy. Played Ace of Spades for me at the gig that I pissed off Noel Redding. Top bloke.

6. Cozy Powell One time Rainbow drummer. Back stage with Noel and Eric. In the end did not dare ask for his autograph cos he just kept gurning and growling. True legend.

7. John Gunnar Levén At least i think it was that one. Playing with Noel and co. Quite a good singer as I recall as he did the Jimi on their cover of Fire.

8. Geoffrey off of Rainbow Signed my copy of the Magnum Force movie book.

9. Eddie spaghetti. Singer and bass player with the Supersuckers.

So there you have it. Quite a star studded list. Oscars, Pah ! I shit em.

Nowt so queer as folk

2010-03-03T15:33:00.006Z

Was reading Vlad the Impalers blog over at In Girum Imus Nocte Et Consumimur Igni yesterday. If you have not read this then get your arse over there, the little shit is as funny as they come and his efforts over there are one of the main reasons for this humble attempt you are reading. The description of an unsavoury character that he recently met got me thinking of some of the ne'er-do-wells I have met over the years. One in particular sprung to mind. A strange, bulging, beastly man I met on a job several years back. He was an odd and heady mix, equal parts tramp, Country and Western singer, and American wrestler. He decided he might make small talk with me one lunch time, and the interchange went something like this.

He: "So, do you have to got to university to do what you do ?"

Me: "No, not at all, I have a degree but I used to do the job before I went to Uni"

He: "Arr, I thought so, student eh? Bet you go animal rightsing"

Me: "Animal rightsing ?"

He: "Aye Animal rightsing"

Me: "Erm, not so sure that I do"

He: "Course you do, you all do. You know, Animal rightsing, of a weekend"

Me: "I am not so sure that I have caught your drift here, Animal....."

He: "You know, marching for monkeys and shit"

Me: "Oh I see, no..no...no. If you are asking if I believe in the fundamental rights of animals not to be abused, of course I believe in animal rights, but no, no marching"

He: "Really ?"

Me: "Really"

He: "OH. I shot a dog Saturday"

Strange fellow. He seemed relieved that I did not go marching for monkeys. Talking of monkeys I met a man a few years later who was utterly convinced he knew me from out east. He was ex Royal Artillery and as mad as a box of frogs. Striding on to a packed site he made a line straight for me, thrust out his hand and announced that he had not seen me since Hong Kong. When I said that I had never been to Hong Kong he pulled a face a bit like Fawlty Towers Major and told me that of course I had, we used to drink in the monkey club. I told him I had never heard of or attended such a venue, he stiffened up and came out with this little gem to stimulate my memory: "You know, the Monkey Club, they used to hang a monkey every Tuesday !"

Morons to the left of me. Morons to the right of me.

2010-03-02T17:22:00.006Z

Just caught sight of an excellent example of the type of vapid shite that dribbles out of the mouths of overpaid under stimulated marketing people. In an attempt to get me to buy a motor vehicle they have sat around masturbating in their imaginarium podule and come up with this well thought out and thorough piece of creative stimulation. ANTI-RETRO. Buy this car and be new and now, nay be beyond now, be newer and cooler than it is actually possible to be in any instant of time that actually exists at the point in time and space that you buy the fucking thing.

And how have they convinced me to forge ahead in my anti-retro crusade ? Playing a piece of film from a pop culture icon who was assassinated nearly thirty fucking years ago. Way to go. Lets sell the future by denouncing nostalgia, but rather than show me anything new why not play me film of someone who has no fucking relevance to my past, future, or basic fucking feelings on the cult of fucking retro one way or the other. Tomorrow i think that i might buy myself one of these fancy PC electronic type writers as advertised by that nice man Caxton. Get a fucking real job or at the very least try not to convince yourselves that you are in any way shape or form superior to the faceless masses with whom you are trying to connect. That might well be a great car but i sure as shit wont be buying one based on that marketing strategy.

Mixed blessings

2010-02-23T17:22:00.008Z

I was walking through a particularly edgy area of Hull today when I happened upon what looked like an extended family, stood outside a boozer waiting for it to open. As I approached my concern at first was drawn to the omnipresent hooded youth. Pleasantly they did not seem bothered in my presence. One of their number, a podgy middle aged man with the look of a pigeon fancier about him, had, it turned out, other ideas. As i drew level he began to chant, "he's got no hair, he's got no hair, but he don't care"

This got me thinking, did I care ? before I knew it I was transported back to my youth and my fruitless protestations with Auntie Mary as she cut my hair. This was back around 1979. I had to go three times a year to my Grandma's house for my hair cutting. Each bloody time my betaloned Auntie Mary would politely ask, "how would you like it cut ?" Three times a year for four sodding years I would reply, "like Bodie" Now growing up as I did in a house full of strong willed siblings all much older that me, a guy had to find his role models anyhow he could. Thank god for that magic glowing box known as television. Who better than Bodie, smooth talkin sharp dressed hard hitting ladies man ? The Professionals was huge at the time and my entire family watched it. Each and every time it was the same. What did I get ? This.

It was the same when Christmas came around. "What clothes would you like ?" "Oh I don't know, something cool like Bodie and Doyle might wear" No problem. Every year a matching set of pin stripe blue pyjamas would appear. It was no good kicking up a fuss. There just like Cowley would wear.

No that guy was right. I have no hair, but I don't care.

Finding ones arse with both hands.

2010-02-15T09:40:00.004Z

Just finished watching season three of The Wire. As by now I am sure that everyone knows what a quality show this was I will resist the urge to drone on at any great length. I would however like to point out that one of the great aspects of the show was an attempt to actually show the real world difficulties faced by law enforcement as it tries to build and then successfully prosecute a case.

Now it is just this very world realism that holds my interest. With The Wire now in short supply with just two seasons to go I cast my net in a bid to replace this thrill of the chase pain staking police procedural with something, anything, that could compete. Well, fear not, for i found it. Steven Seagal, Lawman. This reality show follows the man mountain on his second job as he works as a Deputy Sheriff on the mean streets of Louisiana, No scripts! No stunt-doubles! No second chances!

I cannot begin to fathom the genius behind this show, I think it must have been created in the same space lab that gave us video, Velcro, and faster than light travel. Steven Seagal is once again out for justice...and this time he means it. Watching him use his trademark one liners on bemused members of the public is excellent viewing. I have always been a fan of Steven Seagal and I hope that this show has a long run. I could watch this all day long, utterly compelling.

In other news I had a few beers in town on Saturday with a bunch of friends. It was a good time to catch up with Raffles who was celebrating his birthday and was out on the piss with Oddjob. I myself was out and about with two of my Saturday drinking pals Fang and Ronnie Barker. The call came through about 3 o'clock that Raffles wanted a beer or two and Oddjob demanded a curry. The five of us hooked up for a few beers and were ultimately joined by the Doctor in a rare and very welcome appearance. Several gallons and two pickled eggs later all that was left of this unholy troop, myself, Raffles and Oddjob strode off to find a curry. We were of course,carrying ourselves in an urbane and dignified manner. Things progressed nicely enough to begin with, I managed to only drop a little curry down my front and only a small quantity had become entwined in my beard. Oddjob got his naan and Raffles seemed quite content, at least until they came to take away the pickle tray when he became mildly riled. our performance all in all was quite good, much better than last time we used that place and the head waiter told me that Oddjob and I were good people but Raffles was a wild man. I would score us 7/10 for that trip. The wonderful owner even gave myself and Raffles a free Brandy, and a bloody good one at that. I have high hopes for us, I really do.

First impressions and the shit you just cant escape

2010-02-06T12:16:00.004Z

Mission Hull is now one week old, and from now on shall be known as Operation Holly Willoughby. Progressing nicely now we are over that awkward first day syndrome, I know some of you reading this will know exactly what I mean.

Good day to you sir, my name is Favringsham, I shall be your archaeologist for the day. I was too thick for the clergy.

Still, i found a great way to win hearts and minds. All you need is a Muhammad Ali coffee mug. Mine is an unofficial one. I don't know if the official ones work as good. It seems to help dispel the myth that you might be a tweed wearing twat.

The Forensic Rambler, The Key Master And The Muscly Midget

2010-02-01T17:42:00.008Z

Mission Hull began today. The journey down the fabled 1079. That great Black River reaching its gnarled hand out to the uttermost ends of the Earth.

Now I have no intention to dwell on the details and trivia of work. I shall however, say this. Today I visited the most secure compound I have ever seen. This steel ring was like one of those Fire Bases that they used to create over in Vietnam by dropping a Daisey Cutter on to a hill crest. I had no idea what special instructions I may receive. Only trained and competent personnel to handle the .50 Cal. ? If green smoke goes up please remain in the cabin until the gun line completes it's fire support mission ? As it happened there were no such requirements and the Site Rules were as standard. Though it must be pointed out one of the guys lurking in the rear of one of the cabins did look a lot like "The Roach"

Nah, balls to that. Instead I will tell you a tale of the people I met today, and others from long ago.

Today those that tried with all their might to ruin my day were keepers of keys. Can someone please tell my why the fuck we insist on giving keys to those who lack the required skills to operate the fucking things ? Keys. Keys people. Have you ever stopped to think how fucking important these little pieces of brass are ! No keys, nothing fucking happens. Wanna launch the Space Shuttle ? Tough. I can't find the key. Wanna get in out of the storm ? Tough, I can't find the key. Wanna distribute this vital aid. Tough. I can't find the fuckin key. So. Can someone tell me why the key always seems to land in the hand of the person least likely to A. Find the fucking thing or B. Give enough of a shit about your sorry arse to use it ?

The first key that tried to ruin my day was a till key in a store I went in to buy some water and screen wash. I got the items and headed directly for the till operated by the individual who looked the most friendly and competent. I got there only to find that I had stumbled into a shit storm of epic proportions. In most places that you visit old people are usually in shops buying Fruit Pastels, Envelopes (to write to their Grandson, he's at College you know)or lottery tickets. In this one there were two little old dears buying booze. One had a large bottle of white wine, the other four tinnies. The one in front with the wine had bought a rather nice Red Riding Hood basket to go with the wine and the bar code had fallen off it. The till lady yelled for someone called Gary to find another and scanned the wine. Gary yelled from the bowels of the store that the basket was £3.99 but offered no assistance with a bar code. The till lady thought that the wine was £3.99, not the basket, and announced to the queue that the Wine should not be £4.49 which it BLATANTLY FUCKING WAS due to the fuckin bar code stuck to it. In the ensuing panic that this fraudulent revelation had revealed the till got stuck. Now what ? I'll fucking tell you what. Call for Gary and his magic fucking Key.

The till lady began to yell his name again. Only this time something had changed in her voice. She was angry. The "GAR" was ok but the "EE" cam out as "EERGH" Her tone had gone from fretted to something approaching anguish. The voice was like nothing I had ever heard, a distorted yell of torment. It didn't even sound like something a human could create. I imagine that it would be the sound that a Manatee would make if it tried to talk. Especially if it were drunk.

"GAREEGH" "GAREEGH"

The last part of his name was now so distorted it was like she was having a particularly painful shit.

Gary was having fucking none of it and barked back "£3.99"

By now I thought that the Old Dears would have crumbled and cracked their tinnies but they held true. After another three or four minutes of furious and fruitless yelling she decided to add to the protest, a request for the key that she needed.

"Coming" replied Gary the Cupboard Troll. At last, after 10 painful minutes I was gonna succeed in my moon shot and buy two items from a shop without further mentalism. Up he loomed into view from the bowels of Hades with the BIGGEST FUCKIN KEY on Earth. My heart sank. This was like one of those giant keys the jailer carries in crumby Hollywood movies. He had brought the key to the WHOLE fuckin shop ! For the love of God Gary !!! You're already open !!!

I could not take another second and politely asked the old dear with the tinnies if I could be excused, she stared at my boots and remarked with a barely concealed frown "Youth today"

Key number two was in the hands of a very different beast. This guy knew which key was needed, oh yes, he was just in no fuckin mood to use it.

Tune in later for part 2

The Post-Apocalyptic Pensioner Party

2010-01-31T10:33:00.000Z

Spent yesterday on the the rugged splendour that is the east coast. I was there as part of a combined 80th and 30th birthday party. The format seemed straight forward enough, eat food in pub, return to house, drink tea. As ever the devil is in the details and what should have been straight forward enough turned in to the inevitable cluster-fuck. I don't know what it is with people but if you get more than say, four of them together, trying to accomplish some simple task like buying food and then ramming the fuckin stuff into their gaping mouths, they suddenly turn into sheep with shoes. Think about it. At it's peak the Apollo space programme directly employed 400 000 people. Support came from over 20,000 industrial firms and universities. Together these people designed tested and successfully launched a manned mission to the fucking moon. You take any five of these eggheads and put them in a fuckin Wacky Warehouse and i absofuckinglutely garuntee you that not a single fucking one of em will be capable of selecting an item of food from a list of meals that has been placed in front of them. Calculate the fuel burn required to puncture the Earths atmosphere with zero margin for area ? Yes sir ! I am your man. Tell you what i want to eat from a list of ten fucking items ? BLAM Pass the fucking crayons and get me a bib I'm a full on dribbling fucking monkey and i have just pissed my pants.

I will have the Lasagne, Do i like Lasagne ?

As for working out who needed to pay what ? Fuck it, life is just too damn short to go down that fucking avenue. Still, it was not all bad. I got to have a great conversation about limescale.

The next phase of the operation required that the eleven of us adjourn to the home of the individual celebrating their 80th and play some games and drink tea. First came pass the parcel. A game we will all remember form our youth. A happy tune is played and around and around the parcel goes, if you are holding the bundle of fun and the music stops, peal off a layer. Seems pretty straight forward to me. Our version was a little different. To begin with rather than wrapping paper ours was constructed using last weeks Observer. Then, in between each layer of paper was a fact relating to events that took place in the 1930's or the 1980's. A little bit of fun for those lucky people celebrating their 80th and 30th years. Sadly we were not in a position to play any music. So at first people tried to sing popular songs but that was just excruciating. Instead a small transistor radio was produced. For some reason that i am still unable to fathom we could not tune the little bastard so instead we passed our parcel to the soothing strains of white noise. There i am sat on a deck chair in someones front room passing around some rolled up newspaper to static. Had the balloon gone up in the short journey back from the pub ? To compound the eerie sensation that the entire human race had been annihilated whilst i listened to grown adults argue as to whether or not limescale can turn your kettle brown each of those little facts turned out to be a refreshing little lift. Round and round the parcel went as fast as people could manage, hoping somehow that an invisible hand would cease their torment and release them form the grip of rattling static. Each time that moment came i was greeted by an illuminating tidbit. "In the 1930's the National Socialist German Workers' Party tightened its grip on the country" "in 1980 Britain was in the grip of recession" "In 1929 the Wall Street Crash paved the way for the Great Depression"

Thus, as usual i had quietly and accidentally allowed myself to interact with other human beings leading to the inevitable descent into depression. I sat rod still for four hours whilst around me the conversation drifted from the history of Captain Birdseye to the evils of adding flavour to cocktail sausages back to the thorny issue of the effects of lime on household appliances.

Rock and Roll People. Keep watching the streets, the BASTARDS are out there.

Mission: Hull

2010-01-29T16:40:00.001Z

I'd wake up and there'd be nothing. I hardly said a word. When I was here, I wanted to be there; when I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the field. I'm here a week now... waiting for a mission... getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute they squat in the field, they get stronger. Each time I looked around the walls moved in a little tighter. I wanted a mission, and for my sins, they gave me one. Hull, shit ! why did it have to be Hull ?

Now do not get me wrong, i like Hull. A lot of famous important people have come out of Hull. People like John Prescott, Roy of the Rovers and Poseidon, the Greek god of the sea. But when you get right down to it, popping into Hull is like popping into Basra.

Monday morning rush hour in downtown Hull.

Genesis

2010-01-29T13:35:00.000Z

Long before there was man, before there was even time, when the cosmos was but an egg, there were already BASTARDS.

I am not a wise man, i am not a funny man, but i am an ANGRY man.

In the past people told me that i should write my feelings down. They told me it would help me find my smile. It can't make you any fuckin worse. So, invited reader. What do you say ? wanna join the quest of an angry man searching for his lost smile ?
Thought so. Buckle up, the road is long, the journey will be weary, the Bastards many. That will not stop us, We choose to do things not because they are easy, but because they are hard.